We're Like Starsky and Hutch, Man!
by slvrhvk
Summary: Charles Xavier, an ex-FBI profiler, is called in to work on a serial killer case that reemerged after ten years of silence. Modern day, detective AU
1. Chapter 1

**Jeesh, another editing session. So I've been going back through and cleaning up the plot and chapters, making sure everything is spick 'n span! I have most of the rest of the plot laid out from where I last left off, it's now just a matter of getting those new chapters that I haven't posted yet all edited and stuff. **

**Anyway, sorry for the long explanation, I just wanted to let you all know what's up! I should be posting the newly updated chapters like every other day. Thanks! -Daisy**

* * *

Bright sunlight filtered through the windows of a dusty apartment. It was in the middle of Philadelphia, close to the museum but just far enough away that parking was still reasonable.

The door swung open, sending an empty box of McNuggets flying across the room, and a tired looking man stumbled inside. He yawned, falling back against the door to shut it, and tossed a blue duffel bag to the floor.

He made his way into the kitchen, sighing when he saw a sticky note taped to the fridge. _charles im borrowing ur leftover pizza hope u dont mind lol xxoo -lorna_

Charles rolled his eyes hard, ripping the sticky note off the fridge and throwing it in the trash can._ Lorna can shove my fucking pizza up her asshole, who even gave her a fucking key?_ He ranted to himself, crossing the room and slamming the curtains shut.

He scratched his stubbled chin and threw himself down on the ratty brown sofa against the wall. He let out another loud yawn and picked his phone up off the coffee table, pulling an old Mountain Dew bottle from underneath his back.

"Shit," Charles swore as he discovered exactly how many messages were on his phone. Most of them were unimportant - companies selling things he didn't need or want - but 42 messages? To be honest that many messages on one cell phone after having only been away from connection for three days was quite a lot to take in.

He clicked through them fast, listening to the first few words and nothing more. One was from his mother, which he started to listen to in depth, but after about three minutes he deleted that as well. There was only so much of _'WHY DON'T YOU GET A REAL JOB'_ and _'MAYBE IF YOU WOULD BRUSH YOUR HAIR'_ that he could take in one day.

The next few were also of no interest to him. Charles sighed and decided he would listen to one more message._ One bloody more and then I'm going out to buy some fucking pizza._ He clicked on the next message, which was from only four hours ago, and had to stifle a surprised gasp.

He hadn't heard from this woman in a long, long time.

"_Hi, Charles, it's Moira MacTaggert. I know it's been a while, but we need you for a case. Call me back as soon as you can, please. This is important._"

Groaning, Charles let his head fall back onto the armrest, rubbing the bridge of his nose in aggravation. _What did I do to deserve this? I'm a good fucking person, why is this happening to me? I'm not calling her back, she doesn't deserve that much._

It was at that moment Charles' gaze drifted over to a fallen plaque, leaning upside down against the yellowing wall. _Honor..._ Charles scoffed in his head, "Honor indeed..."

He took a deep breath and shook his head, knowing he was going to regret this decision. His fingers tapped out the number and he clenched his teeth as the phone rang. "Oh fuck me."

"_Moira McTaggart, head of BAU press,_" answered a woman's voice. Charles rolled his eyes and picked at the bed of his nails._ Of course she's made the PR spot she wanted... fucking typical._

"It's Charles Xavier, and this had better be a damn good case you have," he responded. Moira gasped sharply in return, and he pulled the phone away from his ear.

"_Charles? Thank God it's you! Oh my gosh I wasn't expecting you to call me back, I can't believe this!_" she shouted, and Charles rolled his eyes again, putting the phone back up to his ear. _I don't have bloody time for this..._

"Yes, yes. Hello to you too. Tell me about the case or fuck off, I'm on a tight schedule," he demanded. _And by schedule I mean I have a pizza to buy..._

"_Oh damn!_" laughed a male voice, and Charles narrowed his eyes.

"Am I on speaker!?" he snapped, sitting upright. "Moira how many damn times do I have to-"

"_Sorry, sorry! I forgot you didn't like that! Okay, you're not on speaker anymore. I'm sorry,_" Moira said, and Charles scratched his eye.

"Well?" he asked with a heavy sigh.

"_Well what?_"

The genuine confusion in Moira's voice made Charles clench his teeth. "Well the _case_," he hissed.

"_Oh! The case, right, right. Hang on a second,_" she responded, followed by a harsh whisper of, "_Peter, move._"

Charles could hear her typing on a keyboard for a moment, with what sounded like music playing in the background. _That doesn't seem like Moira, she'd never play music while she's working... then again, I haven't seen her in what? Ten years?_

"_So uh, it's this serial killer,_" she began, and Charles notched the phone between his ear and his shoulder. He knocked over several food containers in a scramble for a notepad, but managed to write it down anyway.

"Serial killer? Haven't you solved plenty of serial killers before?" he asked, though he knew in the back of his head that Moira had more to say.

"_Yeah, we have. We're on the jet home from Wisconsin right now, actually, just finished up one with- sorry, wait, never mind. Off topic. It isn't a normal serial case. It's... It's older,_" she continued. Charles narrowed his eyes, biting the pen cap between his teeth.

"Older how?" he asked, and Moira sighed.

"_Older as in we worked on it together._"

Charles closed his eyes, resting his forehead on his hands. He stayed silent for a moment, taking a deep breath.

"_Charles?_" Moira asked, slight concern lacing her voice. He didn't respond for another minute, before he finally opened his eyes and brought the phone back to his ear.

"Go on, which was it?" he asked. When Moira didn't say anything, he shook his head. "Tell me, Moira."

"_It's the metal man,_" she said, and Charles raked a hand through his hair, standing up and making a noise of indignation. "_Please, Charles, we need your help! Nobody knows this case better than you!_"

Charles shook his head as he opened a bottle of Sprite, taking a swig and frowning when he found it flat. "I'm not helping, Moira. I don't want to help."

"_Charles please,_" she pleaded once again. "_You'll get paid._"

"That isn't going to change my mind," Charles said, hopping up to sit on his countertop. After a moment, though, he sighed. "How much?"

"_Enough, Charles. Trust me,_" Moira said with a slight chuckle. _I'm not going to let you trick me into this, Moira..._

"Oh no, I'm not falling for that one. How much will they be paying me?" he demanded, and Moira sighed.

"_Twenty grand, up front. Depending on the rest of the case you could get as much as a hundred,_" she said, and Charles' eyes widened.

"That's a bloody_ lot_ of money, Moira!" he exclaimed, his mouth agape. "Where's the bureau getting it?"

"_Salary's gone up since you left, Charles. Plus I've been pulling some strings. We really need your help,_" she told him.

Charles considered what she was suggesting, scratching his chin. The pay was exceptional, and to be able to get back to work on a murder case was more than tempting.

But if Moira was working the case, that meant at least one of the other members of the Behavioral Analysis Unit would be too. "Who else are we working with?" he asked, and Moira gasped.

"_You mean you'll do it!?_" she exclaimed. Charles sighed, knowing he would regret it.

"Yes, Moira, I'll bloody help you. Now who else is working on the case with us?"

Moira took a deep breath, as if she were trying to stifle her excitement. "_Okay, um. You actually... haven't met most of them. They're the best of the best, though, you can trust me on that._"

"Fine, whatever. And, hang on, Moira. Stryker knows about this, right?" he asked, remembering their strict and quite terrifying head of the bureau. _He never liked me..._

"_Oh, Stryker isn't here anymore,_" Moira said with a small chuckle, "_Yeah, I probably should've told you that. He got booted and replaced like... right after you left, actually._"

Charles almost sighed in relief. "Splendid. Moira, as much as I hate it, I'm going to help you with this case. When do you need me at headquarters?" he asked, glancing at the long broken clock on his wall.

"_How soon can you get here?_" she asked.

"Quite soon. In fact, I've a bag packed at the moment. Just got back from a robbery case in Alaska. I can snag a flight, I should only be about five hours," he shrugged, groaning and hopping off the countertop.

"_We'll be back in about two, good. __Thank you so much, Charles, this is such a huge help,_" Moira said, and he rolled his eyes.

"I'm not doing it for you, Moira. Please do keep that in mind. You haven't exactly done anything to earn my forgiveness," he said, scribbling out a note to Lorna. _Do not take any of my food!_ "I'll see you soon."

"_I understand. __See you, Charles. Have a good flight,_" Moira responded, and Charles ended the call. He leaned against his refrigerator and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

_I am making an enormous mistake._


	2. Chapter 2

_Fuck. FUCK._ Charles cursed to himself as he felt the bumping of the road underneath the cab's wheels. _Oh fuck me, this was such a bad idea. _The cab was driving down a route Charles knew all too well, having driven down it daily for years.

Even after being away so long, he still had the drive to Quantico headquarters etched in his head. _Down this street, pass the garbage can... oh they've fixed the bench! What a splendid and unexpected surprise,_ he thought to himself. _Though for some unfathomable reason they've torn down that odd spoon statue... pity. I quite liked the spoon statue._

The city hadn't changed _that_ much, but it was just enough for Charles' displeasure. _Right. Just here to solve the case. Won't be hard, I'll get out soon. __Yes, get out soon._

Charles' train of thought was interrupted when the cab driver made a move to turn down the wrong street. "No, um, it's the other way," he corrected, leaning forward and pointing. "Third, not Sherwood."

"Ah, my GPS seems ta be failing me, lad," laughed the driver, taking a sharp turn onto Third Street. "Thanks for the direction. Wouldn't wanna be taking ya somewhere ya don't wanna be."

"Right, no," Charles muttered, sitting back with a humorless smile on his face. The plane ride had been less than pleasurable, even though it had been a mere four hours. Charles had been on longer flights in the past, though. _In fact..._ he chuckled to himself, _I recall the longest flight was with Moira. _

_"Moira calm down," Charles laughed at the woman beside him. Her leg was bouncing up and down, jaw clenched tight. In an attempt to lighten the mood, he gave her a playful slap to the arm. "Oh please, it isn't as if you've never worked a case before!"_

_"I'm sorry, Charles," Moira sighed, trying to stop her leg from bouncing. "I just- I've never worked one with the FBI before. What if I fuck it up?"_

_Charles rolled his eyes, sitting forward and putting a hand on her shoulder. "Your hair's messed up, love," he told her, and Moira turned so he could fix it. Charles pulled it out of it's sloppy ponytail and raked his fingers through it. "And you're not going to fuck anything up._ _Would you like it French? I find it's more professional."_

_"Sure, do French, whatever you want," Moira agreed, her shoulders slouching. "I'm just nervous, okay? Ugh, I know I'm gonna fuck something up."_

_Charles pushed the back of her head forward. "Would you stop it?" he scoffed, "You're gonna do great. BAU isn't gonna know what hit them. It's gonna be Moira MacTaggert, superstar secret agent!"_

_"Oh my God would you stop it!?" Moira laughed, trying to turn and hit her friend. _

_"Oi, don't mess up your braid like you've messed up your life!" Charles shouted, earning another bout of giggles from Moira. "C'mon, you are going to be completely fine. Trust me?"_

Charles gasped as the cab jolted to a stop. "You alright back there, laddie? Not havin' a seizure, are ya?" the cab driver called, and Charles rubbed his forehead.

"I'm- I'm fine, thank you. Just tired, I may have fallen asleep," he said. The cab driver shrugged, pointing out the window, and Charles' stomach dropped. "Oh. Thank you. How much will it be?"

"Twen'y dollars, lad. And yer sure yer alright?" he asked, taking the cash Charles handed to him and stuffing it in his pocket.

"Yes, I am. Thank you for your concern," Charles responded, opening the door of the cab. He slid across the seat, dragging his duffel bag and staring out the window. Charles swung his legs out of the door, but inhaled sharply when he tried to stand up. "_Ah!_" he hissed.

"Lad?" the cab driver asked in concern. Charles' hand had instinctively flown to his lower back, pressing into his spine. _Oh, that does hurt..._ he groaned in his head. "Laddie, do ya need me to call an ambulance or the sort?"

"No, I'm- _ah!_ I'm alright. Sorry, and thank you," Charles said once more, finally managing to get out of the cab. He picked up his duffel bag and smiled at the cab driver, who nodded after a moment and drove off.

Now Charles was alone on the street corner, most likely looking rather stupid. He took a deep, steadying breath, and gave the small of his back another rub. _Okay. You can do this, Charles. You can do this._

He squared his shoulders and set off toward the main entrance. A young blonde woman passed him, offering a small smile and a wave. "Morning," she greeted.

"Good morning," Charles responded, and he hoped his voice didn't sound too shaky. _Right. Easy as pie. I can do this._

_I can do this._

* * *

"Oh shut up, you did _not_," Moira snorted, sipping her bland coffee with a smile. "If I hadn't issued that press release you guys would've been _dead meat._"

"Oh as _if_," Warren scoffed, rolling his eyes in a playful manner. "Moira let's be real. _I_ was the one doing all the _real_ work in this case."

That comment made the others in the room begin to protest jokingly. "Yeah sure, bub. Show me the footage of you going hand to hand with that bastard and maybe I'll give you some credit. Oh wait, you can't. Because that's what _I _did_,_" Logan chuckled, taking a swig of coffee.

Warren's mouth dropped open and he put a hand over his heart. "You _wound_ me, Logan Howlett. Besides, you wouldn't have even _gotten_ to go hand to hand with him if it wasn't for?" he said, pointing to himself. "Me is the answer you're looking for."

"Oh _please_," Moira laughed, her feet propped up on the table. "You told us like _two things._"

"Yeah, dude, two _crucial _things!" Warren responded, grinning, "I was the one that figured out they were gypsies! You guys wouldn't have gotten that in a million years!"

Logan gave the young tech analyst a slap to the shoulder, and Moira clicked her tongue. "It's _Romani,_ Warren. Have some political decency," she said, snorting once again with laughter.

"Ha, Romani indeed!" Peter scoffed, shaking his head with a disgusted look on his face. Everyone turned to look at him, groaning, ready for the usual post-case rant. "Perversion of the Romani culture, that's what they were. I'll give a good slap to anybody that says otherwise. Classical-"

"You didn't do too bad on this case yourself, kid," Logan interrupted, smiling at Peter. _Good interception of the oncoming storm,_ Moira chuckled to herself. "You're gonna make a great profiler real soon, trust me on that."

Peter put his hands up, pulling a face and leaning back in his chair. "I appreciate it, Logan, but I'm pretty chill with surveillance right now. Maybe after this next case I'll warm up to the idea."

Logan made a gruff noise of agreement, ruffling the younger man's silvery hair. "Good, good. It'd be great to have you on the team."

"Speaking of the new case, did anybody else get called to work on it?" Peter asked, sitting up. Logan raised his hand, and Warren nodded as well. "That's pretty cool, we've got like the whole squad up here! Who else did you get, Moira?"

"Oh, well Logan you remember Hank, right? Peter, I don't think you've met him," Moira said, and Peter shook his head.

"Nah, don't think I have. What's his field?" he asked curiously.

"_Forensic criminology_," Moira sang, a poor imitation of Sponge Bob. Peter mimed throwing up as he made a gagging noise. "Dude, he's almost as passionate about science as you are about language."

"Well my passion makes sense! Language is an _art!_ Science is _boring as fuck!_" he exclaimed. A chorus of laughter erupted from the other agents around the table. "Is he at least cute?"

"Oh he's the _cutest,_ Peter!" Warren exclaimed, jumping forward with a grin. "Totally your type, trust me on this. He's _tall_, and wears _glasses,_ and-" he stopped mid-sentence, putting a sheepish hand over his mouth. "Well I won't spoil it, you have to meet him in person."

Sighing, Moira watched the younger agents and their antics. _Charles and I were the same way when we were their age..._

"Well this room certainly has changed."

Moira's eyes went wide at the familiar voice, and she turned around. The other agents fell silent. Standing in the doorway of the briefing room, flowery dress shirt tucked into dark jeans, was Charles Xavier. But it wasn't Moira's Charles Xavier.

_No, no. This man is too tired looking, too sad. This can't be him, Charles would never let himself go like this!_ But it _was_ him. His hair was longer than she remembered; down to his shoulders, almost, but he had the same face. The same round face, though now it was covered in a rough stubble. _This can't be him... but... it is him._

"Charles," Moira breathed. When nobody else said a word, she straightened out her posture and took a deep breath. "Right, uh. This is the sixth member of our team. I'd like you all to meet Charles Xavier."

Though everyone else remained silent, Warren smiled wide, waving his hand with excitement. "Hi!" he greeted cheerfully. "I'm Warren, resident tech analyst! It's a pleasure!"

Charles raised an eyebrow, leaning over to Moira. "Where'd you dig this one up?" he asked in what he most likely thought was a hushed tone. Moira shoved him by the shoulder, narrowing her eyes at him. "Sorry, didn't mean any offense."

"Guys, introduce yourselves. I swear, Charles, Warren isn't the only decent one here. Get up, come on," Moira hissed at the others sitting around the table.

Logan was the first up, giving Charles a firm handshake and a slap on the shoulder. "Logan Howlett. Pretty much the BAU's captain. Welcome to the crew, jackass," he said, his voice gruff and almost threatening. When Moira noticed Charles' insulted expression, she chuckled.

"Logan talks to everybody like that, it's nothing personal," she explained under her breath. Charles rolled his eyes, arms crossed.

"Doesn't mean I have to _like it._ Didn't anybody ever teach him manners?" he responded, sneering.

Logan walked past both of them, turning when he reached the doorway. "I'm gonna go finish up my paperwork. See ya later, Moira," he said with a mock salute.

"See you, Logan!"

"I'll be right back, Moira," Warren said as he stood up. "I just remembered I had some things to run by the boss before we start the next case, sorry."

Moira shrugged, letting the younger man walk past her. "It's all good, Warren. Take your time. Peter, don't be a douche. Introduce yourself."

"_Ugh,_" Peter groaned, pushing his chair back so he could stand up. "Fine, whatever. Peter Maximoff, surveillance agent. Pretty much a profiler but I'm not like an official member or anything."

Charles took up Peter's extended hand with narrowed eyes. "Maximoff, huh?" he repeated, receiving a nod. "Sounds familiar."

"Don't know why," Peter responded, not dropping Charles' hand. "I don't think we've ever met."

"No, I haven't had the displeasure," Charles said, a false smile on his face. He gripped Peter's hand tighter. "Surveillance agent? You must speak a second language."

Peter nodded, tilting his head. "Twenty six, actually."

"Twenty six at your age? Impressive, I must admit. Which reminds me. You're only... what? Twenty five?" Charles continued, almost sneering. Peter didn't break eye contact.

"Twenty seven. You were close, old man," he said. Moira held her breath, ready to break up a potential fight.

"Well what gives a twenty seven year old grey hair like that?" Charles asked. Mouth falling open, Moira tried to step between the two.

"Charles! I don't think it's appropriate for you to be _interrogating_ my agents whe-"

"I'm not telling _you_," Peter snapped, ignoring Moira.

Charles smiled. "Sensitive, are we?"

"What about you? I heard you used to be a druggie," the young agent said, changing the topic.

Moira gasped. "_Peter!_"

But Charles only narrowed his eyes, digging his hand into Peter's. "I _hardly_ think that's _any_ of your business," he hissed, and Peter smirked.

"_Sensitive, are we?_" he mocked in a poor British accent. "Have you ever killed anyone?"

"Not yet, but I'm considering it right now."

"Alright!" Moira shouted, finally deciding that she needed to end this for good. She stepped between them, forcing them to drop their hands. "Who wants to get coffee and discuss the case?"


	3. Chapter 3

_Books._ Piled up _everywhere_ around the small café. They were on the tables, the windowsills, the shelves that lined the walls. Hell, they were even strewn across the hardwood floor in some areas. Charles' elbow was resting on a hardback copy of _Return of the King,_ as it were.

Thinking about it, the books did fit with the atmosphere of the café. It gave everything a rustic, homey feel. And matched with the floral printed walls, the books added a nice personal touch.

It was a good walk away from headquarters, close to ten minutes, Moira estimated. But it was worth the walk just to get a cup of coffee, anyone would tell you that.

Charles sipped his mocha, warming his hands on the mug as Moira shuffled files around, finally situated at their small table in the corner. After some muttering and squinting, she found what she was looking for, pulling a file out of her bag and laying it out on the table.

Peter slurped his frozen drink, and Charles glared. _He's got to be getting on my nerves on purpose. Nobody can be this obnoxious. _He grumbled in his mind. Before he could make a snide comment, though, Moira clicked a pen down on the page.

"So Charles, what I was gonna tell you earlier. The 12th Precinct handed this off to us a few days ago. They thought it was just a run of the mill serial killer case, but then..." Moira trailed off, pulling out a second, smaller file. "Somebody thought they recognized a few of the details. They called us up and we got Warren to run a search through our files for a few key words."

"Turns out the detective was right. It took a few days, but we decided this was the same guy," Peter finished. Moira nodded in agreement, taking a sip of her latte.

"So we reopened the cold case. Charles, you know which one I'm talking about," she said, inclining her head.

Charles nodded, scratching his chin. "The metal man," he muttered. Moira pursed her lips, looking down at her coffee. "Moira, you know better than anyone else what this man is capable of. What makes you think we'll catch him this time?"

"We didn't have the same resources back then. Trust me, Charles, we can track him down," she said. Peter rocked back in his chair, slurping his drink once again. Moira took a deep breath. "We're only three victims in. Let's try and get him before he takes another one."

Sighing, Charles sat forward, coffee still in hand. "Hm, alright. What've you told the media so far?" he asked.

"We've been keeping it under wraps, an outcry is the last thing we need. As of now I don't think he knows we've made the connection." She rubbed her temple. "Ugh, you don't know how hard it is to deal with all these fucking reporters. They're like a _swarm_."

"I feel that, dude," Peter said, shaking his head. Moira narrowed her eyes at him, glancing up.

"You work _surveillance_ most of the time. Sit the fuck down," she told him, though her tone was lighter than her words. Peter chuckled, taking another loud slurp of his coffee.

"Right, so the metal man," Charles interrupted, sitting forward. "Has the MO changed at all? I mean since the original one, of course."

Moira shook her head, rolling her eyes. "It would be helpful if it _had_, but no. It's like there wasn't a ten year gap at all. He's just... _picked up_ killing again."

"Speaking of which," Peter broke in, sitting up straighter. "Do we know for a fact that he is actually a _he_?"

Charles squinted at him. "Are you suggesting the metal man may actually be a woman?" he asked. "That would completely change our profile, we never accounted for that."

"We can talk about it with Logan back at headquarters. Peter, tell Charles about the theory you had," Moira said, gesturing to Peter. He leaned forward, shuffling through the file, and pulled out several sketches.

"So I saw a similarity with two of the three new victims. They were with a 'suspicious looking person' an hour or two before they turned up dead. I talked to the family members who saw them, and we managed to get sketches."

Charles looked down at the sketches, narrowing his eyes. "Did you get a positive ID?" he asked. Peter clicked his tongue, shaking his head.

"Nope. Not yet, anyway. But that's not what I thought was weird," he said, pointing down. "Look close at their chins."

Bringing his face closer, Charles squinted. _One has a more chiseled jaw, the other a round face. Not to mention one is a man and the other is a woman. _"Their chins, Peter?" he asked, and the young agent brought one finger sideways down his own chin.

_What does that mean... _Charles sighed in his head as he looked closer. _Hang on... those may be different people, but they have the same scar on their chin!_ "_Oh,_" he breathed.

"You see it?" Peter asked.

Sitting up, Charles rubbed his stubbled face in awe. "Yes, I do. What do you think it means? Gang related scar of passage or something?"

"Not sure right now, still try'na work that out," he shrugged. Charles tilted his head, eyes narrowing. There was something... _strange_ about the way Peter talked. "What's wrong, grandpa?"

"Your accent, where is it from?" Charles asked, waving a finger in Peter's direction. The young agent pursed his lips, looking confused.

"Um... DC maybe? I didn't realize I _had_ an accent," he confessed, but Charles had a feeling he was lying. He didn't push the matter, though. Instead he shoved it to the back of his mind with the rest of the profile he'd begun to build up on the boy, looking down into his mocha.

"Not the time, Charles," Moira said, checking her phone. "Hank just texted me, his flight's delayed. He should be here by tomorrow at the earliest."

"Hank is coming?" Charles asked, sitting up straighter. Moira nodded as she finished off the remainders of her coffee. "Coming as in working on the case with us?"

"Yeah. He's the best forensic criminologist on this side of the country. We thought he was a good choice," she answered, and Charles sighed, rubbing his temple. "Listen, Charles. You can't just ignore your exes until you die, okay?"

"I can _try_," he huffed. Peter's eyes lit up.

"Hank was your ex?" he asked, looking surprised. "You're _gay?_"

Charles took a deep, aggravated breath. "One more person calls me gay, I _swear._ Bisexual, Peter. Perhaps you've heard of the phrase?" he said through clenched teeth.

"Hell yeah, man. I'm on the same level. Gimme some," Peter chuckled, holding out his fist. Charles didn't respond, he just glared. "Alright, whatever dude. Not cool to leave me hanging, but whatever. Moira," he shrugged, moving his fist toward Moira, who tapped it with her own as she rolled her eyes.

"Alright listen. Based on the timeline of the murders so far he should strike again soon. If we're lucky we'll be able to take him down before he claims too many more victims. But it's not likely," she said. Charles rubbed a hand over his chin.

"We should focus on figuring out who the subjects in the sketches are," he decided. "If we find them we can figure out their connection to the metal man. I mean, if there is a connection at all."

Moira stood up, stretching her back out. "I'm gonna go get a brownie, and head back to Quantico. If you guys wanna meet me back there you can, I just have a quick meeting with Marie from PR. See ya," she said, smiling and heading over to the counter.

She was gone within a few minutes, leaving Peter and Charles alone at the table. Peter had pulled out his cell phone, typing something in and looking up at the file every once in a while. Sighing, Charles squeezed the bridge of his nose. "What are you _doing_?"

"I'm looking up what a downward scar on the chin might signify in certain cultures. I've never heard of it before," he said. Charles rolled his eyes, sitting back in his chair and sipping his coffee. "Hm, I don't think I'm gonna be able to get enough off the internet. I need to talk to Warren. C'mon, grab your stuff."

Charles stood up, following Peter toward the front of the coffee shop. The man paused in front of the counter, narrowing his eyes. "I need another coffee. You mind holding the file real quick?" he asked. Charles took it from him, not exactly having any choice, and watched as he stood behind the only other customer.

She had long brown hair and pale skin; her posture reminded Charles of someone he knew. The woman took the two coffees she had ordered, turning to leave. But in the process, she ran into Peter. "Shit!" they both shouted, though luckily she didn't drop the coffees.

"I'm so sorry, ma'am," Peter apologized, holding up his hands. "My mistake."

"It's alright, kid," she responded, smiling. She had her face turned away from Charles, so he couldn't get a good look, but her voice sounded familiar. _Too familiar..._

She walked toward the door, and Peter's eyes trailed after her. "Charles?" he asked as she pushed open the door. "Can I see the sketches again? Now? Fast, please?"

"Uh, yeah, sure," Charles said, handing him the sketches. Peter looked down at them and looked back up, glaring. "What is it? Peter, what is it?"

Peter didn't answer him; instead, he took off running out the door, following the woman. Charles' jaw dropped and he whirled around, following the other agent as fast as he could. "Peter!" he yelled, seeing his silver hair darting through the crowd.

"Ma'am! FBI, stop where you are and put your hands in the air!" he heard Peter shouting. _What is he doing!?_ "Stop, right now! _Ah!_"

Charles skidded to a stop as he caught up with Peter, who was leaning against a rail. "Peter?" he asked, noticing how the young man was clutching his chest. "Peter, are you alright?"

"Yeah- _ugh_\- she got away," he groaned, trying to stand up. Charles offered him an arm, and Peter used it to help himself upright.

"What were you chasing her for?" asked Charles, dusting off Peter's shoulders for him.

"Scar on the chin," he stated, sighing. "She had the same one."

Charles' eyes widened, looking off toward where the woman had disappeared. "You mean- you mean she might have some affiliation with the metal man?"

"I have no idea, Charles. Those people might not have anything to do with him at all. I just wanted to ask her about it," he sighed, taking a deep breath and trying to stand up straighter. This seemed to be futile, because the next second he was swaying on the spot, face going pale. Charles caught him by the shoulder, steadying him.

"Are you ill, Peter? You looked a bit faint, there," he said with a raised eyebrow. The young detective shook his head, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Just tired, man. C'mon, we need to head back to Quantico. And can you give me those files again?" Peter requested. Charles handed him the files he had been carrying. He looked at the sketches once again, laying them on top of each other and squinting.

"There's something off about this," he sighed, "It's like... their faces are so _similar. _Like they're the same... person..."

He and Charles looked up at each other, mouths hanging open. "So we're not dealing with _multiple_ suspicious people. We're only dealing with one," Charles said, and Peter nodded.

"And she just got away."


	4. Chapter 4

_"Ooh, I like this song," Charles said as the black radio changed songs. He bit his lip and ran a hand through his wavy dark hair, edging his black robe off his shoulder. You're sexy, he thought to himself, the sexiest._

_"If you like piña coladas..." the speakers played in the background. Charles glanced over his shoulder, only to see the intended target of his seduction reading a book._

_He sighed, standing up and leaning against the mahogany bed. "C'mon baby, you're so boring," he whined, "Can't you read some other time?"_

_The man looked up from his book, an eyebrow raised at Charles and his obvious pining. "Dear, I'm a tad busy right now," he told the younger man, licking his lips. "And you should be too, if I'm not mistaken."_

_Charles rolled his eyes and climbed up on the bed, bringing a hand up to rest on the man's thigh. "It's just paperwork. I can get Moira to take care of it if I ask her right," he told the man next to him, who still had his book resting in his lap. "Come on, you bore! Take a little break."_

_The man smiled at him, an eyebrow raised. "Charles," he chided, and the young detective groaned. "You know I have a big week coming up, what with the transfer and everything. This is the only free time I have, and I'd quite like to finish this book."_

_Charles pushed himself up on all fours. "Darling!" he exclaimed, "Please! Free time before you move and you're spending it finishing a dreadful book you could read on the plane? It's not as interesting as me, is it?!" He was teasing, but his partner shrugged nonetheless._

_"No, you're right. It's not," he agreed, slipping his bookmark in and putting the thick book down on the night table. Charles smirked, happy to have gotten his way, and he crawled on top of the other man. Their lips met, and Charles braced his hands on either side of the man's head._

_He kissed down his partner's neck and across his collarbone, feeling hands entangled in his hair. Charles pulled away for a moment to look down into his partner's eyes. "What am I going to do without you?" he purred._

_The man sat up, causing Charles to fall backwards. "You could always be my accomplice," he suggested. Charles laughed in surprise, shaking his head. "Yeah, yeah. Ditch town with me, come to Amsterdam. That's my next stop. You keep talking about wanting to see Amsterdam, why don't you come with me?"_

_Charles shook his head again, sitting back. "No, no. I'm afraid I can't. Quitting my job out of the blue-"_

_"I'm sure they can find another detective to take your spot. Charles, darling, I know being in the FBI is exciting and all, but wouldn't it be fun to go with me?" he asked, sitting up and taking the dark haired man's face in his hands. "My love... isn't this what you want?"_

"Hey, yo, English?" Peter's voice interrupted Charles' memory with a snap. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, and realized that he was on his way back to headquarters. "You okay? You looked like you were gonna pass out there for a sec."

"I'm fine, thank you Peter. Have you called Moira yet?" he asked, and Peter nodded. "What did she say?"

"She put out an APB for the woman, asked if I could give a sketch artist a better description once we get back to headquarters. I didn't get the best look, though."

Charles waved him off, shaking his head. "Don't worry about it. I'm sure the security cameras caught something," he said, but Peter gave him a funny look.

"We already asked the lady for security feed. There aren't any cameras. Didn't you hear that?" he asked, pushing his silvery hair behind his ear. "I mean you looked like you were zoning out, but I thought you were listening."

"Yes, sorry. I just forgot about that for a moment," Charles said, shaking his head. He brought a hand up, massaging his temple, and he took a deep breath. "Right, okay. We're headed back to headquarters."

Peter didn't stop walking, but gave him a sideways glance. "You alright, man?" he asked, and Charles nodded.

"Fine, yes. Just have a bit of a headache from the flight," he sighed, and Peter shrugged. "Sorry, what were you saying before?"

"Oh, I was just asking a few questions about stuff. You're from England, right? I mean you've got the accent," Peter said, smiling. Charles shook his head again to clear his thoughts, and apparently paused for a bit too long. "Hello? You in there?"

"Yes, sorry, I'm just a bit distracted," Charles sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "No, no. I'm not from England. I'm from New York. And I'm not quite interested in this Q and A you seem to have set up for me." Peter ignored the last bit and nodded.

"_New York?_ I went to New York once. Didn't like it. I'm a native of DC if you wanted to know," he told Charles with a sideways smile, seeming to glance over for approval.

_No you're not,_ the older man thought to himself upon hearing Peter's statement. _You couldn't be. Your accent doesn't fit._

"That's nice, and no. I didn't want to know," Charles told him, trying to push the profile out of his head. Peter hesitated for a moment, then laughed, spinning around to walk backwards in front of him.

"So you were a profiler? What division did you work in? It was the BAU, wasn't it? That's cool, dude, I work with the BAU a lot! I mean, I'm not _technically_ part of it, but I do enough work with them that I pretty much could be. How many people were on the team back in your day?" Peter questioned, continuing to smile like some juvenile delinquent. Charles gave a deep sigh of malcontent and rubbed his eyes for the third time in what seemed like hours. "And didn't you get shot? I've never gotten shot before. What was that like?"

"Peter, I literally do not give two shakes of a rat's ass about anything you're saying," Charles stated. Peter chuckled at him and pointed a finger in his face.

"See, you put on this 'tough guy no shits given' act, but I think we both know that what you really are is a grumpy old fart who's bitter about losing his job."

Charles felt rage bubble up in him, and he knew he wasn't going to be able to keep himself from saying something he'd regret. But his head was so hot with anger at the boy's statement that the words just spilled out and he couldn't do anything about it. _Don't think about the profile, don't think about the profile._

"And you are simply pining for the attention of the adult figures around you to fill the gap of your absent father and abusive mother," he snapped with a glare. _Damn it_. Peter froze beside him, and Charles cringed. His profiling skills were both a blessing and a curse, as he could never seem to hold his tongue.

He risked a glance at his new partner's face, and his heart filled with dread. For a moment, Peter looked like a vulnerable child who was about to break down in tears. But the next instant, he'd snapped back into his jovial smile, punching Charles in the arm.

"Maybe, but at least I don't look like a sad trash baby," he retorted in a cheerful voice.

Charles felt bad. He'd gone too far. "Listen, Peter-" he tried to say, but the younger man just smiled a small, sad smile.

"Don't worry about it, dude. Just... my mom didn't abuse me, alright? She was amazing. The strongest woman I ever knew. Okay?" he said, and Charles nodded.

"Right. I'm sorry. It was out of place," he muttered.

Peter waved him off and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "It's fine. You're a profiler, you can't help it," he shrugged. "Hey- hold up, Moira's calling me. Yo, MacTizzle, what's up?"

He paused for a second, mouth falling open, and looked at Charles. "Got it, we're about a block away, tell Logan to hold an SUV for us. Kay, bye," he responded, shaking his head. "Another one was just called in."

"_Shit_," Charles cursed. "Shall we make a mad dash back to headquarters?"

"Indeed, I _do_ believe we should," Peter responded, voice laced with a mocking British accent. Charles ignored him and took a deep breath, nodding in the direction of headquarters. And before Peter could say anything else, he had taken off running. The younger man caught up with him with ease, files tucked neatly under his arm, and within a few seconds he had passed Charles.

They came upon the single remaining SUV parked in front of headquarters, and Charles somehow managed to pull ahead. He all but dove into the dark vehicle, falling on the floor and clambering up into the seat.

Peter climbed in after him, shutting the door and collapsing against the seat, laughing. Charles shook his head with a loud chuckle, hand pressed over his stomach. Before he got a chance to say anything, though, the SUV had pulled out onto the street, jerking everyone forward.

"Dudes, you need to get your heads in the game. The other SUV's left like two minutes ago, I don't wanna be late because of you," said a female voice from in front of them. Charles peered up into the passenger's seat, and saw a young woman with long dark hair picking at her nails.

"Um... hello? I don't believe we've met. Are you on the team as well?" Charles asked, holding out a hand to shake.

She turned around, taking up his hand with a smile. "Angel Salvadore, forensic science division. I'm just here to take a few notes for Doctor McCoy so he knows what's up when he gets here," she said.

"Charles Xavier, it's a pleasure," Charles responded, dropping her hand and sitting back. Agent Salvadore's face seemed to light up.

"_Charles Xavier_?" she asked, mouth hanging open. "Like _the_ Charles Xavier? Man, we studied the _hell_ out've your case back at the academy! That was some _ultra shit_ right there, dude!"

"Yes," Charles agreed, a bitter edge to his voice. "Yes it was. Peter, you alright?" he asked, turning to the young man next to him.

Peter nodded, looking down at what appeared to be his watch. "I'm fine, yeah. Sorry, I'm Peter Maximoff. You were- oh wait, hey! Angel!" he grinned, looking over the seat at the woman.

Angel twisted the other way to look at him, and her smile broadened further. "Look who it is! How's it hanging, Maximoff?"

"It's been pretty good, dude, pretty good! How 'bout you?" he asked, sitting forward. Angel shrugged, waving her hand.

"Fine and dandy, sweet as candy! Kinda disappointed Hank got recruited instead of me, but you know," she laughed. "I've got a shit load of paperwork to do and I'm working a double shift now. Don't have any time for this metal bro case anyway."

"Yeah, I feel that," Peter sighed, shaking his head with a smile. Charles, brow furrowed, pointed between them in confusion.

"Ah, so you two already know each other?" he asked. Really, he shouldn't be all that surprised. They did work in the same building, after all.

Angel nodded, chuckling. "Yeah, we worked on this weird case last year, serial killer," she said. Peter snapped his fingers, grinning.

"Dude with the blowtorch, yeah!" he agreed, "We were calling him Pyro, weren't we?"

"Yeah! John Allerdyce was his real name, I think," Angel laughed, "That was a fucked up case, man!"

"Speaking of which, how's your back doing?" he asked her, pulling a face. Angel smiled, waving her hand casually. "All healed up?"

"Hell yeah! And I got some tattoos over the scarring, so it's barely even noticeable anymore," she said. "Hey, I'm probably _way_ off with this, but is Wendy Quill your sister?"

"Yeah, she is," Peter said, smiling slightly. "We don't talk much anymore, but she talked about you a lot. You two dated, right?"

"For a little bit, yeah. Sucks she had to move," Angel sighed, trying to hide the blush that was spreading on her cheeks.

Peter nodded, sighing. "Yeah, well, a modeling job is a modeling job, nothing we can really do about it."

"Could you all _shut up_ back there?" demanded a deep, gruff voice from the driver's seat. "I'm tryn'a drive here and you idiots ain't makin' it any easier."

"Hey Logan," Peter said with a small wave. "How'd the _'paperwork'_ go?"

Logan grunted with a half smile, pulling a cigar out of his mouth. "She went great," he chuckled, and Peter made a fake gagging noise. "You guys find anything new in those files of Moira's?"

Peter sighed, shaking his head. "Not that much. We're pretty sure he has an accomplice, and we ran into a lady that fit the description. I can explain later, I know it doesn't make any sense. But no connection between the victims that we can see," he shrugged.

"We'll figure it out eventually, kid," Logan reassured him in a gruff tone. "How's Wendy?"

Peter's face lit up. "She's doing pretty good," he said with a smile, "You know how she's a model, right? Well she got to move to Amsterdam to..."

_"Charles, love, you don't look that bad," the man smiled, taking the young profiler's face in his hands. "In fact," he continued, "you look absolutely ravishing."_

_"I look ridiculous and you know it," Charles complained, pulling at the buttons of the blue polo shirt he wore. "Nobody wears polos, they look stupid." His lover turned his head up so they were looking into each other's eyes._

_"Missionary groups do, so we do. Besides, I got those X's for our shirts after your name. You should feel honored, Charles. You're on a polo shirt decal," the man laughed, and Charles laughed with him. He let his head fall against the man's shoulder, and a pair of arms wrapped around his body. "I know you're nervous, love."_

_"What if we get caught?" Charles asked, biting his lower lip. His lover pressed a kiss into the top of his head and chuckled. "I'm serious. What if we don't make it through airport security?"_

_"We'll be fine, dear. We made it through the first round of security. Who says we can't make it through the next?" the man smiled softly, pulling Charles away to look him in the eyes. "We're almost there, Charles."_

"Do ya need hearing aids, bub? I said we're there," Logan growled, and Charles realized the car had stopped. _Right. We're there._ He unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the door, climbing out of the SUV into the bright sunlight of the afternoon.

He and Peter walked through the many police officers toward the dead woman on the ground. Charles took in the crime scene as he walked; a fairly nondescript area, near some abandoned construction sites. _It looks like a dump of opportunity._ For a moment, he wondered why they thought this was another metal man killing.

But then he saw it. A piece of the scaffolding had been bent down from the side of the building, impaling the woman in her stomach.


	5. Chapter 5

"Her name was Emma Frost, age twenty nine. Betcha can't guess how she died," explained Moira as they approached the body. Peter stared up in awe at the object bent down into her torso, mouth agape. "This is Detective Darkholme from the 12th, she was first response to the scene, any questions go to her."

Peter shook the woman's hand as they came to a stop in front of the body. "Hi, yeah. Who called it in?" he asked, putting his hands on his hips.

"Anonymous caller, we've been getting those a lot lately. Here, you can... look at the body or whatever," she responded, gesturing to Emma Frost's body. "Just... don't touch the scaffolding, alright? We don't wanna disturb it too much."

Charles crouched down next to the body, giving a curt nod. "Hello, Raven. I was unaware they let you back on the force after your finagling with that drug dealer," he commented, not looking at her.

"I could say the same to you, Charles. But I guess they didn't _really_ let you back on the force, did they?" she shot back, voice even.

Peter joined Charles on the ground, pulling a face. "Shit, I'm sensing some rivalry. You two know each other?" Charles didn't respond at first, instead snapping on a pair of latex gloves and poking at the woman's arm.

"We knew each other, yes. I'm gonna go talk with your director," Detective Darkholme stated, walking away from the body. Peter shook his head, biting back a sarcastic comment. Instead, he focused his attention on Emma Frost's body. Charles was staring at her intently, a bit unnervingly.

"Look at this," he commented, pointing at the metal impaling her midsection. "There's too little blood around the entry wound. This had to've been done post-mortem. So this isn't how she died."

Peter nodded in agreement, brow furrowing. "Hey, could you pick up her wrist real quick? I wanna see the other side," he requested, and Charles rolled his eyes.

"Get a pair of gloves and do it yourself. They're in a box over there, don't be lazy," he scoffed, but Peter shook his head shrugging.

"Sorry pal, but the gloves are a no can do," he sighed, wiggling his fingers around and pulling a face. "Allergic to latex."

After rolling his eyes in annoyance, Charles obliged and turned Emma Frost's wrist over gingerly. "Well that's odd," he observed, scratching his chin.

"Something's missing," Peter agreed, nodding. There was a small indent as well as several scratches along the inside of her wrist, as if she had been wearing a bracelet. "Wait, look at the finger, too. Looks like her jewelry might've gotten stolen."

Charles rubbed a hand over his stubbly chin, placing her arm back on the ground. "That's strange. The metal man hasn't ever taken anything off the victim before," he muttered. Peter nodded, biting his lip. "Have CSU check for sexual assault, there may have been a personal connection to this woman."

"You got it," Peter nodded, turning to look over his shoulder. "Yo! Salvadore!" he shouted, hand cupped around his mouth. Angel jogged over, purse bouncing at her side as she came to a halt beside them.

"What's up my man? Ready for me to work my magic?" she joked, pulling out a clipboard. Peter snapped his fingers and pointed toward Emma Frost. "What we lookin' at?"

"We just need you to check for sexual assault real quick. You know, the real obvious signs and stuff, can you do that my love?" he asked, leaning toward her and giving her leg a kiss.

"Can chimpanzees learn American sign language?" she laughed, leaning down and pecking Peter on the top of the head. "The answer is hell yes dudes, I'm on it. Check back in three."

"You're the absolute best, Angel," Peter grinned standing up and dusting off his knees. Charles joined him, stretching out and trying to ignore the dull ache in his back. "Hey, the first responder, Officer Darkholme. She's from the 12th, right?"

Charles nodded, face darkening. "Yes, she is. Has been for quite some time now, in fact," he said. Peter clapped him on the shoulder, pointing off toward where she stood.

"I'm gonna go talk to her, had a few more questions. Be right back," Peter stated, standing up and tossing his hair out of his eyes.

"Sounds good, go ahead. I'm going to look over the body again," he agreed, watching Peter walk away. "You don't mind if I..."

Angel looked up at him with wide eyes, gloved hand pushed up under Emma Frost's skirt. "Huh? _Oh!_ No, not at all, go ahead. I'm just down here for another second," she said, pulling a face. "Doesn't look like there was any sexual assault, but we won't really know until lab results get back, am I right?"

"Yes, that's true," Charles agreed, scratching his chin as he inspected the body. Angel blew out a breath of air, standing up and writing something down on the clipboard she held.

"Ooh, hold on a sec. Gettin' a call," she chuckled, fishing her cell phone out of her purse. "Salvadore. Hey, what's up, Jeannie?"

Charles looked back toward Emma Frost's body as Angel strolled away to take her call.

It was out of character for the metal man to take something off his victim; he'd never done it with his past kills. It could mean this was a crime of opportunity, though that would change the MO as well.

_Of course there's always the possibility this wasn't the metal man at all..._ Charles shook his head, pressing his fingers to his temple, trying to clear his thoughts. This was definitely the metal man. No question about it.

The woman was attractive, he observed as he turned her head toward himself. Blonde hair, fit shape, traditionally attractive face. Considering the look of the metal man's previous victims, she really wasn't his type.

"Hang on..." Charles muttered as he moved her head again. There seemed to be something under her shoulder, though he couldn't make out exactly what it was. "Um-" he began to say, thinking it wise to call over someone from CSU. But, against his better judgement, he kept quiet and pulled whatever it was out himself.

His heart leapt into his throat. _No, no this isn't possible, this can't be right. It must just be a coincidence, this can't be happening._

In his hand was a silver coin, worn from being carried and toyed with over the years, with a chip taken out of the edge. Charles knew this coin. He'd seen it many times.

"Raven..." he whispered, unable to form proper words. She couldn't see this, not now, not after all she'd been through. Charles squared his shoulders and stuffed the coin in his pocket, standing up. _This is the right thing to do. She's gone clean. You can't let her see this. _

Raven was standing not too far away, talking to Peter. She was so different from the last time Charles had seen her, blonde hair cut short and dyed red. She'd slimmed down as well, muscles more defined, and if he didn't know any better, he'd say he could see tattoos peeking up over her collar.

It's been a long time.

_"C'mon grandpa! It's just one beer! Don't be such a prude!" Raven laughed, tossing her hair behind her shoulder as she pushed the large glass into Charles' hand. "Drink! Drink! Drink!" she chanted, elbowing two of their college friends playfully. The others began chanting as well, and after some prodding Charles gave up and caved in, downing the beer._

_When the joking cheers had died down, Raven hopped up to sit on one of the barstools._

_"I'm gonna be a voice actress," she grinned at Amy, who smiled back at her. "Or like... a makeup artist! My class said I was the best of the best." Charles put an arm around her shoulders, smiling at her._

_"Well if that fails, Raven, don't forget you can still come and live with me," he joked. It was half hearted, though, because he knew his adoptive sister was too skilled not to score a job in her desired field. Raven threw her head back, laughing._

_"You mean with your mom? No thanks, brother o' mine, I'd rather survive on my own," she giggled, tapping his nose with her finger and taking another drink._

"As soon as we're done, got it!" Peter's voice interrupted Charles' memory, and he realized with a start that he was sitting down on the hood of a police car. He stood and shook his head, walking toward where Peter was standing.

"What did you two talk about, then?" he asked, shoving his hands in the pockets of his coat. The coin felt cold against his fingertips, and he tried to ignore it. _I'll give it over to Moira as soon as we get back to headquarters._

"Eh, she didn't know anything relevant to the case. You okay there? You're lookin' a little woozy," Peter responded, squinting at Charles. The man waved him off, shrugging.

"I'm fine, still have that headache," he said, scratching his eye. Around him, the officers seemed to be packing up the crime scene. "What's going on?"

"Alright, let's roll out!" Angel shouted as she slid into the front seat of their SUV. Charles' mouth fell open, and he looked around, realizing they were leaving.

"Already? It hasn't been more than what? Five minutes?" he asked, walking toward the SUV with confusion.

Angel raised an eyebrow at him, shutting her door and leaning out the open window. "I dunno where you've been, dude, but we've been here almost a half an hour. _C'mon_, slow pokes, I want that body in the morgue before it decomposes!" she shouted over Charles at the officers retrieving the body.

Charles furrowed his brow a bit, but climbed into the SUV nonetheless. Peter was still standing by the police cars, glancing down at his watch. "Let's go, kiddo, get in the car!" Angel called out the window at him.

He looked up, confused at first, and then laughed with a casual wave of the hand. "I'm staying behind, helping out with something over here. You guys go ahead, I'll be back pretty soon," he responded.

"Alright whatever. Take care of yerself kid. I'll see ya back at HQ," Logan shouted, giving him a thumbs up, and the SUV pulled away. Peter watched it leave for a minute, waiting until it was out of sight to turn around.

"Thanks so much by the way, Detective Darkholme," he said to Raven, who was stuffing files inside her bag. She gave him a smile and touched his arm, nodding in the direction of the 12th precinct.

"Please, just Raven. And it's no problem at all. The Precinct's just up the way, short walk. My car's there if you need a ride back to headquarters. Can't help but notice you look a little short of breath," she told him.

"I'm fine, thanks. And it's not too bad of a walk. Worst comes to worst I can call a cab," Peter shrugged, and Raven gave him a side glance.

"You sure?" she asked, and Peter nodded.

"Yeah, thanks though," he smiled, before biting his lip. "Hey, if you don't mind me asking... how do you know Charles?"

Raven raised an eyebrow, tilting her head at him. "Is that really your business?" she chuckled, and Peter shrugged, eyes falling down to stare at the sidewalk.

"I dunno, I was just curious," Peter muttered, embarrassed. Raven punched him in the shoulder, smiling a bit sadly.

"It's fine. I just don't like to talk about it," she sighed. The awkward silence returned for a moment, before Raven took off her hat and put it under her arm, running a hand through her short red hair. "We were... _friends_ a while back. Charles had a bit of a big brother complex over me, and I had a little crush on him. You can imagine that didn't work out."

"Yeah no, that wouldn't work out," Peter agreed, scratching the back of his neck. "And... uh, what did he mean by 'finagling with that drug dealer'?" Raven looked up at him with steely eyes, all traces of humor gone.

"I'd prefer we didn't go there," she stated, and Peter silenced himself immediately. _Shit... I just crossed the line, didn't I?_ Luckily, she changed the topic as they began descending the stairs to the 12th precinct's file room.

"You know I'm glad the FBI's keeping us up to date with this case. They don't usually do that. You mind giving me your number real quick? Moira gave me hers, but we never really got along," Raven said.

Peter smiled at her, taking the phone that she held out to him. "Sure, yeah. I won't ask why you two didn't get along, don't worry," he chuckled. When he had finished entering his number in her contacts list, he handed it back.

And as he did so, they came to a stop in front of an old looking door. "Alright, this is it. What file did you say you wanted?" Raven asked as she unlocked the door. Peter bounced on his feet, feeling his heart racing. _Stop it, don't do that._

"Um, the uh, the 1994 murder of a family of Romanian immigrants? I can't remember their name but it happened some time in May. Unsolved, probably doesn't even _have_ a file anymore," he chuckled, and Raven waved him off.

"Everything's got a file, kid. And the old stuff should be back here. Everything's entered into a database nowadays," she said as they entered the dusty room. Peter leaned against one of the file shelves, trying to get his heart rate to slow down.

"May 1994, you said? May 1994, May 1994..." she muttered as she ran her blue tattooed finger along several different boxes in the massive room. After a while, Peter assumed they didn't have the file anymore.

_Well shit..._ he groaned in his head, before Raven exclaimed, "Aha!"

"You _found it_?" he asked, standing up straighter. Raven smiled, pulling several old dusty manilla folders out of a large box.

"Yep!" she grinned, flipping through the folders. "Not much on this case, but what can you really expect from these old files."

As she flipped further, her eyes widened. "Shit, kid, this is some grisly stuff," she gawked, eyebrows raised. "But whatever. I guess I can't judge. Good luck with whatever you're looking into, I don't think you're gonna find anything new."

She handed over the file, and Peter tucked it under his arm. "Thank you so much, Raven," he said, shaking her hand as she escorted him back up to the door to the door. She smiled and patted him on the back.

"No problem, kiddo. Any time," Raven said, just as the world started to spin. _Fuck, I'm going down- _Lucky for Peter, the officer caught him by the arm before he could careen to the ground, and she pulled him upright. "Whoa, hey. You sure you're okay?"

Peter steadied himself on the handrail at the top of the stairs, trying to keep his expression casual. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just got back from a long case, might be a little more tired than I realized," he chuckled.

This earned him a suspicious look from Raven, but she clapped him on the shoulder nonetheless. "Alright, take care of yourself. Don't go passing out into traffic, okay?" she said, and Peter nodded.

"I won't, don't worry. See you around, Raven," he smiled, watching as the woman headed back inside. As soon as the doors had closed, Peter let out an uncomfortable groan.

With some difficulty, he managed to stumble over to a bench, plunking down and taking several deep breaths. _You can do this, come on._

He closed his eyes and sat still for several minutes, breathing in and out as deeply as he could. The throbbing pain that had been in his chest before was now burning the area behind his eyes, making it difficult to stay conscious.

_You can do this, come on, pull yourself together._ Peter managed to fish a bottle of pills out of his coat pocket, twisting off the lid with shaking hands. He tossed back two of the pills and swallowed them dry, praying that he wouldn't have to go to the hospital today.

After another minute, the pain had faded, now a dull ache in his chest. _Good, okay. I'm okay._

Peter took the file from where he had dropped it on the bench beside him, taking a deep breath and opening it up. His vision hadn't completely cleared up yet, so all he could see were the larger letters on a clipping from a newspaper.

This was definitely the right file. He could tell just from those words, eyes fluttering shut.

_Romanian Immigrant Murdered in Home, Twin Children Witness Event._


	6. Chapter 6

"Few minutes my_ ass_," Moira shouted as Peter stepped out of the elevator. "Dude you've been out for like an hour! What, did you stop for Taco Bell or something?"

The detective rolled his eyes, tossing something down on his desk and walking over to where Moira sat. "McDonalds, dude," he stated, smirking. "A man's gotta eat when a man's gotta eat."

"Alright, whatever. Hank just called, said he should be getting in tomorrow morning. Big boss man's pretty mad it's taking so long, but I mean what can you do. Eagle eyes see anything at the scene?" she asked, spreading butter sloppily over a croissant.

Peter shrugged as he took a seat on the side of her neat desk, disturbing a pile of papers. "Eh, just the usual. Got it all up in the steel trap, yo," he chuckled, tapping his temple.

Moira rolled her eyes, taking a bite of the croissant. "I hate you, Peter, you have the best memory ever," she complained, and Peter laughed.

"Why thank you, Moira, it's genetic and unattainable," he grinned, holding out a hand. Moira glared for a moment, before breaking off a piece of her croissant and giving it to him. "What about you? Handle the press alright?"

She let out a long breath, leaning on her hand and taking another bite. "_Dude_, they are so fucking _fast_ I don't even get it. Like we knew about that scene for two minutes and there's already twenty reporters there," she groaned.

"See we surveillance hermits don't have to deal with that shit. We sit in our apartments like good antisocial little agents and don't talk to _anybody_," Peter laughed, hunching over and making a face.

Moira cackled, finishing off her croissant and tossing the plastic knife into her trash bin. "Where are you gonna stay for this case, by the way? I mean your jobs usually give you a place, but this isn't surveillance," she asked.

With a sigh, Peter shrugged. "I don't really know. I talked to the landlord about it, he said he'd get back to me tonight. I'll probably just stay with somebody until the case gets wrapped up, it's all good," he said.

"I'd offer up my couch but my cats just destroyed it," Moira told him, and Peter chuckled. "Hey, don't insult the cats."

He put his hands up defensively, grinning. "Whoa, dude, I would _never_ insult Groot and... what was the other one? _The Invincible Iron Man_?" he asked deviously. Moira had turned red, glaring. "Did you ever get that grey one you wanted?"

Her eyes lit up. "Yeah, I did! He is the absolute _best_! Little ball of energy, that one," she exclaimed, and Peter smiled at her.

"What did you name it?" he asked, ready to make fun of her. Moira crossed her arms, sticking up her nose.

"His name is Quicksilver, you bitch. And _whoa_\- not a word, don't you say a word!" she shouted, sitting up and pointing at him. Peter clapped a hand over his mouth, shaking his head. "I know you're thinking something! Shut up, man!"

"I'm not saying anything, I'm not saying anything!" he cackled, grinning from ear to ear. "Dude! I said nothing!"

Moira opened her mouth to respond, but before the words could come out of her mouth someone called her name. "MacTaggert? Shaw wants to talk to you."

They looked up and saw the scowling face of Janos Quested, PR supervisor of Quantico. Moira visibly paled at his words, and Peter gave her a half-hearted thumbs up. "Good luck, man," he muttered, the good mood dissipating immediately.

"Thanks, I guess," Moira mumbled in response, smoothing out her suit and walking off with as much confidence as she could muster.

She reached the Director's cold looking door and gave it a swift knock, heart pounding. "Come in!" said a voice from inside. Moira gulped and turned the handle, stepping inside.

"Hello, sir," she smiled, hoping her nervousness wasn't showing through. Shaw looked up from his desk, smiling a toothy, unnerving grin. _You did nothing wrong, Moira. You did nothing wrong._ "You wanted to see me?"

"Yes, I did," Shaw said, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. "Have a seat, Agent. Care for a chocolate?"

Moira sat down, smoothing out her jacket, and leaned forward to take a chocolate from the bowl. She unwrapped it carefully and placed the foil on the desk, putting the chocolate in her mouth.

Shaw watched her the entire time, with every chew, and Moira felt wildly uncomfortable. The room seemed to grow too hot for a moment, vision becoming blurry. _Ugh, my head hurts..._

But the next moment she shook her head and blinked several times, taking a deep breath. "Sorry, did you say something? I think I zoned out there for a second. I didn't mean to, I don't do this on the job, I promise," she apologized, nervously shifting forward.

Shaw laughed a bit, waving a hand to stop her. "It's perfectly alright, Agent MacTaggert, or... can I call you Moira?" he asked, giving her an all-too pleasant smile.

Moira nodded, her hazel eyes wide. "O- of course, sir."

"Well then, Moira. I'm sure you know why I called you in here," he asked, raising an eyebrow. The woman nodded again, then paused, bit her lip, and shook her head. "Well," he continued, leaning forward on his desk, his hands clasped in front of him. "Allow me to enlighten you."

Moira held her breath as Shaw began to speak, biting the inside of her mouth. "As I'm sure you're aware, the FBI has been having some... how to put it? _Issues_ with a few of it's agents recently. We've been making cut after cut after cut, and we just don't have anybody qualified to take their places!" Shaw sighed, shrugging over dramatically.

"I'm... _sorry_, sir?" Moira tried, but he held up a finger to silence her.

"Now the only person who doesn't seem to be causing trouble for us is _you_," Shaw informed her, and Moira wanted to feel relieved. But the tone in her boss' voice was less then comforting. Before he could speak again, she jumped forward.

"I'm so sorry for whatever you think I did sir but I promise I didn't do anything this job is my life please please don't fire me I swear to God I'll do better if you just give me a cha-" she rambled in a high pitched voice. Shaw held up a hand to stop her once again, chuckling to himself.

"Moira, Moira. _Please_ sit down, you never let me finish!" he laughed, and Moira sat back down in the chair, not having even realized she'd stood up in the first place.

"Sir?" she asked, a tinge of hopefulness in her voice.

Shaw took off his wire glasses and wiped his eyes, still laughing to himself. "Dear girl! I'm not going to fire you. What I was saying is that I just, most unfortunately, sacked Janos Quested. You know Janos, don't you Moira?"

"Um, vaguely sir. He's the head of PR. W- was! _Was_ the head of PR, sir," she said hurriedly, on the edge of her seat.

"Well! I've just sacked him, oopsie daisy, out the door! And that leaves a very good spot open for _somebody_ I think will excel in the job," he smiled, tapping his desk every time he said a word. Moira's brow furrowed.

"Sir?"

"You graduated top of your class at the CIA's academy, correct?" Shaw continued, pursing his lips. Moira nodded, still confused.

"Yes, sir."

"And you were brought to the bureau with _glowing_ recommendations from your superiors there, correct?" he asked. Another nod from Moira.

"Y- yes, sir."

"Well then what are you confused about? Moira, you are perfect in every aspect of the word. And you will be an absolutely _stunning_ head of PR," Shaw grinned.

Moira's mouth fell open. _Head of PR!? Head of PR, this is the job I've always wanted, I'll be running the show, oh my goodness! This can't really be happening..._

"Sir?" she asked aloud, worrying that this was some sort of joke. Shaw smiled at her again, handing over a large stack of papers.

"Moira, I can't put it any simpler than this. You're being promoted," he told her, "Give yourself a pat on the back. Throw a party. I don't give a shit. You start work tomorrow."

Moira took the paperwork from him awkwardly, but remained seated, trying to figure out how to word her next question. Her pause was met with an annoyed glare.

"Is there a _problem_, Moira?" Shaw asked, lips pursed. She took a deep breath and blinked several times, tucking her loose hair behind her ear.

"Sir... does this mean I'm no longer on the metal man case?" she asked, voice quieter. Shaw tilted his head. "The, uh... the case I'm on right now. Am I not allowed to keep working on it?"

"Oh, _dear_. I'm afraid I didn't realize you were currently on a case," he told her with a shrug. "Well, I'm _sorry_, dear, but you're going to have to hand off this case to the rest of whoever's working on it. You do have your friend Xavier on the case as well, correct?"

Moira nodded, and Shaw smiled, clapping his hands together. "Then you should have no problem leaving it! Have a lovely da-"

"But sir!" Moira exclaimed, flinching when Shaw's face darkened. But she didn't back down. "Sir I'm sorry, but this case is very personal to me. I was one of the original three agents who worked on it. I was part of this in the beginning and I want to see it through to the end, please sir!"

"I'm sorry, Moira," Shaw said curtly, "But I'm afraid I can't let you do that. Especially if you have a personal connection. Have a nice day."

"But-"

"Would you like me to call security to escort you out of my office?" he asked in a cold voice, and Moira shook her head. Shaw gave her a tight lipped smile. "Then please show yourself out. Enjoy the new job, _Agent MacTaggert_."

Moira thanked him quietly and shuffled out of her boss' office, biting her lip to stop from crying.

As soon as she had shut the door, Shaw's face flattened into an exasperated glare. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a flip phone, dialing a number from the back of a napkin.

He placed the phone up to his ear and waited impatiently as it rang. After three rings, as usual, the person picked up.

"_Have you gotten my dress from dry cleaning yet?_" asked a woman's voice on the other end. Shaw smiled and played with a toothpick that had been laying on his desk.

"It was the pink one, correct?" he responded, and the woman on the other end laughed. "Emma Frost."

"_Sebastian Shaw,_" Emma greeted him. "_What's the news?_"

Shaw picked at something on his desk with the toothpick, before tossing it into the garbage bin next to him. "I _promoted_ Moira MacTaggert. She's no longer on our case. Thought it would be too much of a ruckus to dispose of her. And Janos was being... disloyal. I trust you can take care of that. Perhaps after our next meeting," he drawled.

Emma's laugh filtered through the speaker, though it sounded a bit lower than usual. "_It would be my genuine pleasure, sugar._"

"Good, good. The boy is still in your custody?" Shaw asked, grinning.

"_Of course. I have him right here,_" Emma responded, sounding pleased with herself.

"Excellent. I should have the new case files by tonight. And _Emma_, I hear you executed another kill without my authority. Care to inform me on who it was?" he requested, and Emma sighed in annoyance.

"_It was just some lunatic who wandered in on one of our calls. I thought I'd dispose of her to make sure she couldn't give us away,_" she told him, and Shaw's smile broadened.

"That was so kind of you, my love," he said, and Emma cooed from the other end. "And this seems to be the end of our call. Someone's approaching my office. Azazel's bar, tonight?"

"_Ooh, I'm sorry. I have a previous engagement. But I'll try to show up for you, baby. Janos is none the wiser, he'll be along. And I can... take care of him when you're ready__,_" Emma stated, and Shaw made a kissing sound into the phone, hanging up the call.

* * *

"I deserve a damn _Oscar,_" laughed the woman as she threw down Emma Frost's cell phone. "That was a fucking awesome performance! Better than today with the damn police! Am I right, Erik?"

A fair haired man in a black turtleneck smiled at her, winding his arms around her body. "You should be a movie star, Raven," he cooed, though she could tell the words were half-hearted.

"Are you alright?" Raven asked, pulling out of his arms and turning to face him. "Ever since what happened earlier-"

"I'm- Raven I'm fine," Erik protested, scratching behind his ear. She narrowed her eyes at him and slapped his hand.

"Don't do that, we have work to do. You can't have another breakdown right now, Erik. Not when we're so close," she said, shaking her head. Erik nodded, taking deep breaths to try and calm himself down.

"I won't, I'm sorry. Sh- shall we continue? We were in the middle of something there," he laughed blandly, and Raven nodded again, eyes narrowed.

"Of course. We need to act fast, okay? Shaw's gonna know Frost is dead soon and he'll be checking up on you the moment he does. Once he finds out you're gone it's only a matter of time before he tracks us down," she explained, licking her lips.

Erik nodded, scratching at his ear once again. "Right, right. Are you going as Frost to the bar?"

Raven let out a curt laugh. "Oh _man_, as much as I'd _like_ to say I had Frost's body, I don't. Our dear Janos is a safer bet. He's supposed to be there anyway," she said, looking across the room. There sat a man in a blue suit, tied to a white plastic chair.

"Are you going to the bar alone?" he asked, not hiding the slight concern in his voice. Raven took a deep breath, nodding. "Raven-"

"I know it's dangerous, but I just need to get a look at Shaw and if he's vulnerable I'll strike. I can handle this, Erik, okay?" she told him firmly, taking his hands in her own and pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Stay here, try and talk him over to our side. I'll be back soon."


	7. Chapter 7

The night was windy on the way home from Quantico, a chill running down the spine of everyone on the street. The sun had only barely set, leaving everything cast in a purplish glow.

Peter zipped up his black jacket with his phone tucked between his head and his shoulder, half way through a conversation with Logan. "It's alright if you can't, Logan. Seriously," he sighed.

"Kid, if you need a place to stay I've got ya covered. My place ain't too far from HQ, either," said the gruff man from the other line. Peter rubbed the bridge of his nose, nodding.

"Thanks, Logan. You're great," he smiled, almost tripping over something on the sidewalk. Logan made a noise that sounded like a grunt.

"Any time, kid. Listen, I gotta go. Angel's gettin' people to do shots off her stomach and I need ta intervene," he groaned, and ended the call. Peter blew out a long breath of air and stuffed his phone into his pocket, continuing back toward his apartment.

In retrospect, he knew he should've gone out drinking with the rest of the team, but he honestly couldn't find the energy. The day hadn't exactly been easy on him.

_Can't believe Moira's off the case..._ he grumbled to himself. He wanted to be happy for her, he really did. But it had only worsened his already bad mood, and he didn't want to ruin their drinking celebration with his grouchiness.

_Besides,_ he chuckled, _I'll probably be the only one at work tomorrow without a hangover._

Peter tossed his hair out of his eyes and took his phone back out of his pocket, opening his email. There was the case file and a message from Charles, which he didn't bother to read. Nothing interesting.

The young detective went to put his phone back in his pocket as he rounded a corner, but instead ran directly into another man. They both made surprised noises and stumbled backwards, Peter catching the man by the arm before he could fall.

"Thanks, man," he laughed as Peter brushed him off. "That was close!"

"Yeah, tell me about it. Sorry, I didn't mean to run into you," Peter stated, before his brow furrowed and he narrowed his eyes. "Hang on... Agent Quested?" he asked, earning a nod and a laugh from the other man.

"In the flesh! Peter Maximoff, right?" Agent Quested asked, pointing at him with a smile. Peter nodded slowly, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Well I'll let you head off to wherever you were going. I was just on my way to the bar up there."

Peter had to fight back a scow. "Ah. Going to celebrate Moira's promotion too?" he asked in a bitter voice. Agent Quested laughed, just a bit too loud. "Oh right, my bad. She took your spot. Sorry."

"Hey, it's fine. I'm just coming from the 12th precinct, actually! Got a job up there, friend of mine hooked me up already," he said in a cheerful voice. When Peter did no more than nod in response, Agent Quested decided to keep talking. "Well have a good night, Peter. See you around."

He clapped Peter on the shoulder as he walked away, and the touch felt strangely familiar to the young agent. But he'd never met Agent Quested before, he'd only heard about him from Moira.

So it must've just been a coincidence. Right?

* * *

The bar was crowded that night, full of people looking to either drink away their problems or drink to their fortune. Angel Salvadore had stripped down to her bra, and was dancing on a table in the middle of the room while Logan tried to pull her down.

Further away from that group, sitting at the counter near the wall, was a man and a young woman. They were an attractive couple, the man with dark hair and piercing eyes, the woman with white bangs that she tucked behind her ears. Both swirled beers as they talked quietly.

"I'm telling you, cheri, I don't like it," groaned the man as he slumped backwards on his bar stool. "Just because you are part of the PR does not mean you have to take that woman's position!" His fiancee rolled her eyes at him.

"Remy, it's the biggest opportunity I've ever had. If somebody higher up then you got moved and you got offered a better job, I'd say you should take it," she told him, taking a sip of her drink. "Besides, sugar, I won't be working with Bobby Drake anymore."

Remy took a swig of his beer, looking incredibly frustrated. "It's not that I don't want you to take the job, Rogue! It's just... I- ugh!" he fumed, his brow knit together.

"What?" Rogue demanded, leaning forward so she was closer to his face.

"It's just- maybe once this whole metal man thing stops-" he tried, and Rogue raised an eyebrow at him.

"You don't think I can handle the press for this case? Is that it?" she asked, appalled, and he shook his head rapidly.

"No, love! I think you'd be able to handle it just fine! It's just- I just-" Remy stammered over his words, struggling to find the right ones. Rogue glared at him, crossing her arms.

"What is it?" she snapped.

"I think Shaw is shady as all fuck!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, throwing his arms up in the air in exasperation. A few heads turned, eyebrows raised, but they went back to their drinks in a moment.

When they had looked away, Remy sighed, cupping Rogue's face in his hand. "And I don't want anything bad to happen to you!"

Rogue sighed, giving her fiancee a smile. "Sweetie, I'll be fine. If it makes you more comfortable, I'm workin' with Logan. He'll keep me safe," she told him, brushing some of his hair out of his eyes.

"I know you'll be fine, but I worry about you," he grumbled, lacing his fingers with hers. Rogue grinned at him, pressing her body against his.

"There ain't no reason to be worryin' after me, Remy," she cooed as she leaned in for a kiss. Their lips met and he brought a hand behind her head, deepening it. After a moment, they pulled away from each other, smiling. "I think your phone's ringing."

Remy groaned, rolling his eyes hard as he pulled his phone out of his pocket. "Please don't be a case, I can't handle a case right now," he complained, answering the call. "Agent leBeau, CARD unit."

"Who is it, baby?" Rogue asked when she saw her fiancee stiffen.

"Yes, Director Shaw. I'll be right over," he agreed, hanging up the phone and putting it back in his pocket. "It was Shaw. Said he wanted to talk to me."

"Should I keep the tab open?" asked the woman, punching him lightly in the arm. "Or are you gonna be in trouble all night?"

Remy laughed, shaking his head. "Go ahead and order me another drink, cheri. He said it would only be a minute, and I'm close to HQ. Be right back," he told her, pecking her quickly on the lips.

"Bye, sugar, see you soon," Rogue called, watching as he disappeared out the bar's door. He had only been gone for about two seconds before another man had sat down next to her.

"Marie Barfield, what's up my girl?" asked the cheerful voice of Warren Worthington. Rogue looked over at him, smiling when she saw who it was.

"Nothin', Warren. What're you doin' here?" she raised her eyebrow, glancing over her shoulder. "By yourself?"

Warren ordered a martini from the bartender with a smile, shaking his head. "Nah, I'm here with Moira's little celebration party over there. See Angel dancing on the table? Yeah, that was my crew," he chuckled.

"Oh, right, I do see that. Wow, she's got a real nice body," Rogue laughed awkwardly, taking another sip of her beer. Warren nodded and took his martini from the bartender.

"I know, right? I'm so jealous. Hey, you're taking Moira's spot on our team, aren't you?" he added, pointing with the toothpick from his drink. Rogue nodded once again, a bit shy. "That's awesome. I like you. I was kinda worried it was gonna be that one bitch Sandra. Ugh," he shuddered.

Rogue laughed, louder this time, and sipped her beer again. "Well it's an honor to be on this case with y'all. I swear I ain't never seen a better team gotten together than this one," she said, giving Warren a pat on the knee.

He beamed at her, smile broadening. "That's so sweet of you! Man, you are such a nice person!"

They both laughed, sipping their drinks and sitting in silence for the next few minutes. Eventually, when the bartender came back to collect Warren's glass, Rogue finally spoke up again.

"Hey, ah- did you hear about that lady that got killed today? If you wouldn't mind I'd appreciate some details before I jump in tomorrow," she asked, handing her empty glass of beer to the bartender.

Warren smiled with a nod, ordering another drink. "Hell yeah. It was pretty gross, I hated looking at the file. Woman's name was Emma Frost, I think. Angel says cause of death was blunt force trauma to the back of the head," he began, and the bartender turned around.

"You guys cops or something?" he asked, voice laced with a Russian accent. Rogue and Warren glanced between each other, eyebrows raised.

"Federal agents, actually," the blonde answered, a bit smug. He and Rogue pulled their badges out of their pockets, flashing them and chuckling. The bartender looked... impressed, if a little intimidated.

Sliding Warren his second martini, he grinned. "Well then, consider all your drinks on the house," he stated, and Rogue jumped forward.

"Oh, gosh no, sir! You don't need to do that," she half-laughed, but he waved his hand dismissively.

"It would be my pleasure, you two. Thanks for keeping this country safe," he nodded, before walking away to take another order. Rogue looked at Warren with wide eyes, hand on the counter.

"This day's been way too good for me," she whispered under her breath, trying to fight off a smile. "Somethin' bad's gonna happen, I just know it."

Warren laughed aloud, swirling his drink, and gave her a pat on the shoulder. "Rogue come on! Is it so hard for you to believe that you're just having a lucky day?" he asked, grinning from ear to ear.

"Guess I just have bad experiences with 'lucky days', sugar," she shrugged as she took another sip of her beer. There was a loud whistle from behind them, and the two turned around. Angel was waving at Warren, gesturing for him to come over. "I think they want you back."

"Alrighty, I'm up. It was nice chatting, Rogue! See you tomorrow, I guess!" he smiled, standing up and bouncing off to the rest of his group. Rogue smiled to herself and looked down into her glass of beer.

"Can I get you anything else, madam?" asked a Russian voice from behind the counter. Rogue jumped, yelping in surprise, only to see the bartender smiling innocently at her. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you."

Laughing with a hand over her heart, Rogue shook her head. "It's alright, I'm a little jumpy anyway. And no thanks, I'm fine," she said. The bartender leaned on the counter, tossing a rag over his shoulder.

"So you're investigating a murder, huh?" he asked curiously, scratching his chin. Rogue nodded, taking a sip of her beer. "Any chance I can know what it's about?"

"I'm sure you'd like to know," Rogue smirked, waggling a finger at him. "I ain't allowed to tell you, or I would."

He put his hands up defensively, still smiling. "Won't ask anything else. Except... you said it was a woman named Emma Frost?" he asked, biting his lower lip. Rogue sighed jokingly, leaning forward on the countertop.

"Alright, yeah. Name was Emma Frost. Why, you know her?" she asked, narrowing her eyes when the man stiffened. He shook his head, taking her now empty glass and spinning around to fill it back up.

"Not really, she came into the bar a few times. Other than that I've never really met her. Great girl, though. Real great girl," he sighed as he handed her the refilled beer. "Any idea who did it to her?"

"We don't know at the moment, but that's what we're tryn'a figure out. Thanks for the drinks, by the way," Rogue smiled slightly. The bartender waved his hand, shrugging.

"It's the least I could do. You're all out there risking your lives while I sit in a bar and mix drinks all day," he laughed. Rogue clicked her tongue at him, shaking her head.

"C'mon, this is as hard a job as any! I'll tell you right now I don't know how to mix any sorta drink," she told him, crossing her arms. The bartender smiled at her, and moved to say something else before he was cut off by a shout for a drink.

Rogue was alone once again, listening to the rambunctious sounds of the bar around her. Out of the corner of her eye she could see that Logan and Angel had pushed Moira up to do karaoke with Warren, all laughing. She couldn't hear what song, but the woman looked embarrassed.

A buzzing in her purse brought her attention away from the group, pulling out her phone and looking at the bright screen. Remy's contact picture was glowing up at her, and she gave a small laugh, answering.

"Hey, sugar. What's up?" she asked with a smile, but received no response. It was like he'd butt dialed her; she could hear people talking in the background, but she couldn't hear what they were saying.

Rogue sighed, rolling her eyes and waiting a few seconds before trying to speak again. "Remy?" she repeated, tapping her fingers on the bar. "Remy is this a butt call?"

When there was still no response she hung up, shoving her phone back in her purse. She would have to tell him to stop keeping his phone in his back pocket.

Turning back to look at the small stage, she saw that Moira and Warren were still screaming the lyrics to what sounded like Piano Man while Logan videoed them. Rogue laughed quietly, a little jealous of the close bond the group had. _I hope they'll like me..._ she sighed in her head. _But you know what? I'll be fine even if they don't._

Her thoughts were interrupted when another man sat down beside her, waving over the bartender and ordering a drink. "Evening," he greeted, and Rogue's mouth fell open.

"Agent Quested!" she exclaimed, jumping back slightly. The man looked over at her, looking surprised.

"Oh! Hello, um... sorry, your name slipped my mind," he responded, biting his lower lip. Rogue laughed awkwardly and held a hand out for him to shake.

"It's alright, I'm Marie Barfield, new BAU head of press," she said, and Agent Quested shook her hand. "You um... you used to train me and a couple'a other agents on press."

His brow furrowed for a moment before he nodded with a grin. "I do remember that, Marie. You were absolutely splendid in training," he told her, folding his hands on the counter.

Rogue felt herself blushing, and she smiled at him. "Ah thanks... that's way too kind of ya," she said, sipping her beer to try and hide her face. Fortunately, before either could say anything else, Remy had come back into the bar.

"Tryn'a steal my fiancee, Quested?" he joked, grabbing the man by the shoulder. Agent Quested jumped, spluttering out his drink, before starting to laugh.

"Remy leBeau, it's been forever and a day! How are you?" he asked, standing and kissing the man on both cheeks.

"I've been great, man. Amazing, actually! Me 'n Rogue just got engaged over the weekend, so that's a plus. Heard you just got sacked, I'm so sorry about that," Remy said, hand resting on the other man's shoulder.

Agent Quested shrugged, waving a hand dismissively. "It's fine, man. I managed to pick up a job somewhere else already," he responded with a laugh, "Congrats on the engagement you guys!"

Rogue and Remy smiled, glancing at each other. "Thanks!" he said, before looking down at his watch. "Well I think we might wanna get going, Rogue?"

"I've been ready to go for hours," she chuckled, grabbing Remy's arm as he tried to pay for their drinks. "Just throw it in the tip jar, bartender gave us a free pass 'cause we're federal agents."

"Cool! It was nice seeing you, Janos. Good luck with that new job. Call me if you ever wanna get a drink or something," Remy said, waving a goodbye at the other man.

Janos gave him a pat on the back, nodding. "I'll probably take you up on that. Nice to see you, Marie," he nodded, and Rogue returned the smile.

"Nice to see you, Agent Quested," she agreed. Janos laughed, waving his hand around.

"Please, just call me Janos. I'm not your superior anymore," he told her, and Rogue smiled awkwardly, putting an arm around her fiancee's waist. "Well you two crazy kids get on your way. I'm waiting for a friend of mine, so I shouldn't be lonely for too much longer."

"Alright. See you soon, hopefully!" Remy grinned, clapping Janos on the shoulder and heading out of the bar, arm draped over Rogue's shoulder. "He's a nice guy."

Rogue looked up at him with a raised eyebrow, narrowly dodging a parking meter. "Seriously?!" she asked with a laugh, "Everybody in PR was terrified of him! Bobby even started this thing where we all called 'im Riptide. Thought it was fittin'."

Remy laughed, throwing his head back in amusement. "I'm gonna have to start callin' him that, cheri! He'd get a real chuckle. Not that I'd tell him where I got it or anything," he grinned, leaning down and kissing his fiancee on the temple. "Anything you want to do when we get home?"

They rounded a corner, headed back to their apartment as Rogue thought. "Hm... I was think we could order some pizza. They just put the new Parks and Rec on Netflix, too. Sound good to you?" she asked, looking up at her fiancee. Remy grinned, leaning down and kissing her on the nose.

"Sounds perfect to me, cheri," he smiled, and Rogue laughed, leaning against him.

"What'd Shaw wanna talk to you about anyway?" she asked as they passed a set of bright orange cars. Remy scoffed, rolling his eyes. "That pointless, huh?"

"Yeah, he was just getting on my ass about not having my paperwork filed yet," he sighed, stuffing his free hand in his pocket. "I'll probably get that done tonight if you don't mind."

Rogue smiled and shook her head. "Nah, I don't mind. Hey, you need to find a better place to keep your phone, I don't want any more butt calls," she laughed. Remy shrugged and laughed with her, pulling her closer to his body.

"The booty hits what it hits, cheri! Not my fault it's always phone buttons!" he stated. Rogue pushed him with her hip, rolling her eyes.

"It's your booty, sugar. Totally your fault," she told him with a laugh. Silence fell between the two of them as they came upon their apartment complex, climbing the three flights of steps to get to their floor.

They made their way down the open-air hallway, pausing when they saw their neighbor sprawled on the ground in front of his door. Rogue looked at Remy with an eyebrow raised, and he gave the young man a swift kick to the foot.

"Ow, hey!" he snapped, rolling over. When he saw who had kicked him, though, the angry look fell off his face. "Oh. Hey guys."

"Tough night, Peter?" joked Remy, arm still wrapped around Rogue.

"Tough as shit, man," Peter held up a piece of paper that was lying beside him. "Can't afford to keep this place now that there's no surveillance to do. And I lost my key. But other than that, can't complain. How's your guy's day been? I hear you're gonna be taking Moira's place," he said to Rogue, who nodded. "That's cool."

"I'm so sorry about the apartment, baby boy. If you're really needin' a place to stay we've got a couch. I'm sure Remy won't mind," Rogue offered with a sad look in her eyes. Peter smiled at her and shook his head.

"Nah, I'm fine. I called Logan before my cell died, he said I could stay with him. Thank's for the offer though, Miss Barfield," he smiled, and Rogue bit her lip.

"Soon to be Mrs. LeBeau, if everything goes according to plan. Remy popped the question over the weekend," she told him, and Peter held out his hand for a fist bump.

"Congrats, guys. Well, I don't want to hold you up. Have a great night," he told them, giving the couple a small salute before looking back down at the eviction notice in his hand.

"Why don't you use the spare under your doormat?" Remy asked, referring to the lost key. Peter looked confused for a moment, before he face palmed and let out a long groan. "You forgot about it, didn't you?" The man nodded, crawling to his feet. "How long have you been out here?"

"Like a half an hour. Thanks, man," Peter sighed as he pulled the spare key from under his doormat. He shoved it in the lock and twisted the door open, smiling back at them half-heartedly. "Have a good night, you guys."

"You too, Peter!" Rogue responded, offering a small wave. When he had disappeared into his apartment, closing the door, she rubbed her eyes with a long sigh. "Remy..." she began, and he cut her off, pulling her toward their apartment.

"Cheri, we don't need to talk about this again. Peter is not a child," he muttered, unlocking their door and escorting her inside.

"I know, sugar, I- I just... I worry about the kid," she told him, her brow furrowed with concern. Remy shut the door and brought Rogue back into his arms as she sighed. "Logan's a great guy, I know. I... ugh."

Remy nodded and leaned forward, kissing her on the forehead. "Peter can manage on his own. You are not his mother," he told her, planting another kiss on her nose.

"I know," she muttered, resting her head on his chest. They remained in that position for a minute or two, rocking back and forth in silence, before Rogue looked back up at him. "By the way, Remy?"

"Yes, cheri?" he asked, still holding her close.

"That pizza isn't gonna order itself."


	8. Chapter 8

Rogue woke up to the sound of vomiting in the other room. She blinked heavily for a moment, her vision not focused in the dark room, before she realized that her fiancee was not beside her in bed anymore. Sighing, she gathered that it was most likely him puking in their bathroom, given that nobody else lived in their apartment.

Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, Rogue pulled on a sweater from the floor and walked with her arms crossed toward the light of the bathroom. "Remy, baby? You okay?" she called in a tired and crackly voice. Rogue heard more sounds of vomiting, followed by the shaky voice of her fiancee.

"Non, cherie," he whined, and Rogue made her way down the hall to the door of the bathroom, her hand trailing along the boring beige wall. She leaned against the doorway, an eyebrow raised at the man kneeling in front of the toilet, his eyes squeezed shut.

"What's wrong, sugar?" Rogue asked as she sat down beside him, trying to ignore the disgusting vomit in the bowl. Remy dropped his head so he was leaning against the white porcelain toilet seat, and Rogue put an arm around his shoulders. "C'mon, sweetie, you gotta tell me what's the matter."

"I don' feel well, Marie," Remy murmured, and Rogue tensed up. He _never_ called her Marie, unless it was a _really_ serious situation. The woman tried to calm her pounding heart and she squeezed his shoulder comfortingly.

"Oh? Is it your stomach?" she inquired in the steadiest voice she could muster. Remy shook his head, not lifting it from the toilet seat, and raised his hand weakly, resting it on his head. "It's your head?" The man nodded, whimpering. "It hurts so bad you're throwin' up?" Remy didn't respond, only letting out a choked, high pitched sob.

Rogue took several deep breaths, sitting back and contemplating what to do. _I should take him to the hospital,_ she immediately though, but reconsidered after a moment. _I can't afford that, neither can he. It's probably nothing anyway. I'll give him some aspirin. _"Remy, honey," she said in a soft voice, "I'm gonna get you some aspirin and water, okay? I'll be right back, baby."

* * *

A tall, white haired woman sat with her legs folded comfortably on a floral patterned recliner. A book rested in her slender hands, and the light from the wall-high windows beside her cast a warm sunset glow over her dark skin. Around her were potted plants of various shapes and sizes, as well as a rustic looking queen bed, covered in a large comforter.

On top of the bed sat a black cat, licking it's paw and turning to face a different direction every once in a while. The woman looked at her watch; it was nearly five at night, around the time her boyf- _husband_ should be getting back to the apartment. Ororo smiled. _I will never get used to calling him my husband_, she thought to herself, her heart warming.

She slipped a piece of fabric in between the two pages and closed her book, unfolding her legs and standing up. Ororo stretched in the warm sunset light, tying her hair back into a ponytail and pulling her skirt down from where it had tangled in her long legs. She padded lightly over to the cabinet in the small kitchen next to the window, and pulled a glass from the shelf.

Ororo was half way through filling the glass up with water from the tap when the doorbell rang. She looked toward the door, her brow raised, and turned off the water, setting the glass down on the marble countertop. It wasn't like her husband to have to ring the doorbell; T'challa was much more responsible than that, always remembering his key.

So this was a bit strange to her. However, Ororo didn't think anything of it; it was around the time he was meant to get home anyway, and he probably just forgot his key. She sighed and sauntered over to the door, unlocking it and turning the handle, pulling it open.

But T'challa wasn't there. In fact, _no one _was there. Ororo leaned out of the doorway with her brow furrowed, looking around to see who could've rung the doorbell. When she saw nothing, she sighed. _Probably some of the obnoxious neighbor kids..._ she decided as she leaned back into the apartment.

Ororo was about to close the door, go back to her book, when she saw a package laid on her welcome mat. It was small; no bigger than her palm, and it was wrapped in blue paper with lightning bolts and storm clouds printed all over it. In the middle of the small box was a white bow, which was speckled with red.

The tall woman leaned down and picked the box up in her slender hand, looking around in the hallway once more before shutting and locking the door. She shook the small thing once next to her ear, and, when she heard nothing suspicious, walked back toward her kitchen counter, ripping the wrapping paper off the box slowly and placing the red speckled bow to the side.

Under the paper, the box was plain and white, with a lid. Ororo leaned her elbows on the marble surface as she turned the cardboard thing over several times in her hands. After some contemplation, the woman sighed and wiggled the lid of the box off.

And she screamed.

* * *

Wendy Quill was having a perfectly pleasant day until her phone rang.

She woke up that morning, _late_, for that matter. It was her day off. She had a lovely breakfast in her kitchen, consisting of an omelette and a cup of coffee, made by her roommate Jean. The two models weren't _close_, but they did enjoy each other's company in the morning and at night. They could definitely say they were friends.

After this, Wendy took a bath in the porcelain claw footed bathtub in their washroom, before returning to their shared bedroom and clothing herself in an elegant pink dress. The woman tied her dark hair up, before looking in the mirror and changing her mind. When she was finally ready for the day it was nearly lunch, so she fixed herself a frozen burrito from the freezer and sat down on their balcony, staring out at the busy streets of Amsterdam.

She and Jean were lucky to be the two models on this job; it not only got them a lot of publicity, but they also got to stay in a beautiful house for the extent of their work. The designer Wendy and Jean were modeling for was cranky and moody, so that certainly took away from the experience, but it was worth putting up with.

_Besides,_ Wendy thought to herself as she set her plate down in the stainless steel sink, _it sure beats my old job._

The rest of the day was fairly uneventful; Wendy ditched the dress when she realized she wasn't going to go out, and she put on the television. She watched that for several hours (who knew how enjoyable The Little Mermaid could be in Dutch?) before turning the volume down and opening her computer. Wendy scrolled through Twitter for much longer than she thought she had, and didn't even realize what time it was until she looked at the clock.

_Shit,_ she swore to herself,_ it's almost time for dinner. I guess pizza sounds good..._ The woman picked up the phone on the night stand, dialing Jean's cell number and waiting for her to pick up. Eventually, on nearly the last ring, Jean's voice carried out of the speaker, "_Yo!_"

"Hey, Jean," Wendy grinned, pulling her knees up and wrapping her arm loosely around them, "I was gonna order pizza. Sound good to you? I mean, if you'll be back any time soon, that is."

There was a pause, and then Jean responded. "_Pizza sounds amazing, Wendy. I should be back in like... an hour. But like, go ahead and order it! Don't wanna keep you waiting, I can just heat it up. Do you need anything? I'm at the grocery store._"

"No, thanks Jean. I'll see you when you get back. Do you want anything on the pizza?" she asked, pulling out the sticky note where she'd written down the pizza delivery service's number. Jean made some noises on the other end, before responding.

"_Nah, thanks though. You just getting cheese?_"

Wendy nodded, then remembered Jean couldn't see her. "Yeah, I'm just gonna get cheese," she agreed, and Jean made a kissing sound into the speaker.

"_See you, honey. Don't have too much fun without me,_" she joked, and Wendy chuckled.

"Alright, bye Jean. See you," she responded, and the phone clicked, the sign that Jean had hung up. Wendy stretched her arms out, placing her computer on the night stand and falling back on her bed. She lay there for several seconds, before she sat up to call the pizza place.

However, her cell began to wring before she had the chance to dial the number. That was strange; not many people_ had_ Wendy's phone number. But she picked it up anyway, putting the device to her ear and speaking. "Um, hi?"

There was rapid breathing from the other end, as though the person she was speaking to was hyperventilating. "_Wanda?_" the person breathed, and Wendy stiffened, her face turning cold. "_Wanda are you there?_"

"Who is this?" Wendy demanded, her fist clenched around her bed sheet. The person on the other end made some garbled noises, and Wendy's jaw tightened. "_Who is this?_" she repeated, slower and more firmly.

"_Wanda it's Storm,_" the woman said, her voice shaky. Wendy's face went slack, all her breath leaving her. She sat there in shock for a moment, trying to register what she'd just heard, before she finally was capable of forming words.

"S- Storm? O- Ororo, what is it? Are you okay? I haven't heard from you in years!" she breathed, and Ororo whimpered on the other line, sounding like she was praying in another language. "Ororo, what's wrong," Wendy asked firmly, her brow furrowed with concern. Ororo Munroe, at least when _she_ knew her, was a calm and collected woman. This was far out of character.

"_It's him_," she whispered, and Wendy felt all the blood drain out of her face. She took a shaking breath and looked around the room hesitantly, her hand creeping over to her pillow.

"Are you sure?" Wendy asked in a quiet voice. Her hand wrapped around a solid black object, and she pulled it out from underneath her silken pillow. She now held a loaded gun in her hand, her finger hovering above the trigger.

"_Yes,_" Ororo cried quietly, "_it can't be anyone else._" Wendy got to her feet silently, her gun raised, and she backed into a corner, her eyes scanning the room suspiciously.

"Did he make direct contact?"

"_Yes!_" she choked, and Wendy tightened her grip around her gun. "_Well... no... I mean... he- Wanda he sent me the bullet! He sent me the bullet and put my bow on top of the box!_" Ororo was sobbing now, her words coming out in choked clumps. Wendy felt her throat tighten, and she cast her eyes to the ground. "_I didn't- I didn't know what it was at first- I- I didn't think- Wanda it still has the blood on it! It- oh God it still has the bl- blood on it!_"

"Ororo calm down!" Wendy snapped, and the woman on the other end stifled her crying suddenly. "I- I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be so harsh. Just- holy shit, this is a lot. Okay, who else have you told?"

There was the sound of Ororo taking some steadying breaths, before she returned to the phone. "_J- just you. I- I'm sorry, Wand-_"

"STOP CALLING ME THAT!" Wendy screamed as Ororo tried to speak. She immediately slammed her hand over her mouth, regretting the outburst immensely. "I'm so sorry, Ororo. I didn't mean to do that. I'm _so sorry_. Just- I'm sorry."

"_Y- you have no reason to be sorry, Wa- Wendy,_" Ororo responded after a moment, "_I'm sorry I- I'm putting you in danger by c- calling you, I just- I didn't- I didn't know who else to call!_"

Wendy rubbed the back of her hand over her brow, the gun still clenched in her fist. "It's alright, Ororo. I'm well enough hidden. Do you still have Wade's number?" she asked, trying to regain her calm.

"_Y- yes, I still work with Wade. Wendy you forget that you are the only one who pursued a different career after what happened,_" she said, her voice still shaky and thick, but she seemed to be calming down a bit.

"I know, 'Ro. I just had to ask. Okay, go to Wade, wherever he is. Drop what you're doing, nothing is as important as your safety. I'll get in contact with the others. Just... please stay safe," Wendy said, looking around the room once again.

"_I will. Thank you W- Wendy,_" Ororo breathed, and then the line went dead. Wendy's heart hammered in her chest. If he was really back, they could all be in danger. She stared blankly ahead for a moment before she managed to kick into gear and dial her brother's phone number.

It rang for too long, and went to voice mail. "_Hey, you've reached Peter Maximoff - lucky you - anyway, I can't make it to the phone right now, if you couldn't tell. So leave your name, number, and any other information at the tone._" Wendy hit end, not leaving a message. She redialed the number. It rang until the voice mail again. "_Hey, you've reached Peter Maximoff-_" end call.

Wendy tried again and again, always getting the voice mail after a series of painfully long rings. "_Hey, you've reached Pe-_" The woman slid down the wall, her gun still clenched in her hand. _What if he's already dead?_ She asked herself, gasping. _What if I'm too late?!_

A million scenarios played out in her head, and Wendy called the number one more time, though she knew it was in vain. One ring. _He's probably been killed._ Two rings. _Or he's been kidnapped and tortured._ Three rings. _He's dead, I'm sure of it!_ Four rings. _This is all my fau- _"_Wendy?_"

"Peter!" she breathed in relief, her shoulders relaxing. "Oh thank God I was so worried! You're alright?"

Peter laughed on the other end. It was strained and forced, but Wendy could tell that was due to something else. "_Yeah, I'm fine. There's just some shit going on with my apartment and stuff. How's Amsterdam? Is the modeling going alright?_" When his sister was silent, Peter sighed. "_I guess you're not calling just to socialize, huh?_"

"Peter, I don't know how to tell you this," she began in a hesitant voice, suddenly contemplating whether or not she should really make her brother aware of what was going on.

"_Are you preggers?_" he asked jokingly, and Wendy glared at the phone. "_Did someone knock up the graceful virgin at last?_"

"No, I'm not pregnant, you asshole. And how many times do I have to tell you I'm not a virgin? I just-" Wendy sighed in aggravation, angry that the man on the other line couldn't take anything seriously. "I got a call from Ororo Munroe today."

Peter was quiet for several seconds, and Wendy wasn't sure if he was even still there until he said in a quiet and solemn voice, "_Ororo Munroe?_"

"Yeah," Wendy sighed, rubbing her eye.

"_It must've been... nice to hear from her,_" he said quietly, and Wendy bit her lip. "_What did she say? She doesn't want me back over there, does she? Cause I'm on a case right now, I can't-_"

"It's Schmidt."

There was silence from the other end. It was as if Peter had set the phone down on a table, leaving the room. Wendy waited until he finally came back, hardly prepared for whatever his response would be. Eventually, Peter's voice returned to the speaker, and Wendy tried to brace herself for an oncoming shit storm from her brother. But all he said was, "_She isn't dead, right?_"_  
_

Wendy rubbed her forehead, shaking her head. "No, she's alright. I sent her to Wade, she should be safe with him," she told the man on the other line. Peter cursed. "Is there something wrong with that?"

"_Shit, Wendy! She'd be safer in the states. Get her the first flight over here to DC, she can stay with me and Logan, I'll tell him she's my girlfriend!_" he exclaimed, and Wendy sighed.

"Peter you _know_ that's not safe. She'll be alright in Spain for the time being. I just wanted to make sure _you_ were safe," she explained, and Peter said nothing. "I have every reason to be worried about you, Peter. If Schmidt really is back, Pietro Romanov is at the top of his goddamn list!"

"_Pietro Romanov is dead,_" he responded, and there was the sound of someone else talking. "_I gotta go, bye._"

And the line went dead.

**Please drop a review, my friends! **


	9. Chapter 9

**Bit of a longer chapter, but oh well. Drop a review!**

_"Pietro Romanov is dead."_

"Who's Pietro Romanov?" a tall, lanky man asked curiously as he walked into the conference room. Peter looked behind him and then turned back around.

"I gotta go, bye," he said into the device, turning it off and tossing it down on the table. The lanky man who had entered the room sat down cheerily in the seat next to Peter, putting his satchel on the ground beside him and pulling out his tablet. Peter turned his chair so he was looking at the man, one silvery eyebrow raised. "Who are you?"

"I'm SSA Hank McCoy, it's a pleasure," the man chirped, holding out a hand to Peter. The young detective took it up and shook it slightly; Hank had a very firm handshake. "Who's Pietro Romanov?" he repeated once they'd dropped each other's hands. Peter sighed, shaking his head.

"He's nobody. A guy I used to know. He died, though. Lightning strike, heart failure," Peter informed Hank, who shook his head sadly, looking down at his lap.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he said, and Peter chuckled, slapping him on the shoulder lightly.

"It's no problem, man. Seriously. Dude was a real asshole anyway. I'm Agent Peter Maximoff. And Moira told me about you. Said you're ex CIA," the silver haired agent grinned, unbuttoning one of the buttons on his black dress shirt. Hank nodded cheerfully, setting his tablet down on the table.

"I was indeed! Forensic criminology. That's why I was asked to consult on this case, they thought I could help with the forensic evidence," he stated, and Peter smiled at him, tying his hair back in an awful bun. His sleeve fell down his arm, and Hank gave his wrist a funny look. Peter leaned forward on the table and raised an eyebrow.

"What's up?" he inquired upon noticing Hank's gaze. The scientist was quiet for a moment, before he pointed a slender finger at the watch-like object on Peter's wrist. "What?"

"Why do you wear a heart monitor? You seem like you're in perfect health," Hank stated in a curious voice. Peter turned red, pulling his sleeve down to cover it. "Oh no!" the lanky man shouted, jumping forward and touching the agent on the arm. "No, I'm sorry. You don't need to be embarrassed! I was just curious! Medical examiner, that's all."

"It's fine," Peter said, trying to act casual. "Nobody's ever noticed before, that's all."

Hank nodded, leaning on his hand and looking at Peter again. "Does it have anything to do with what turned your hair gray? You're too young for it to be old age. Could it be stress? No, but stress usually only turns streaks of the hair, and it's often white. I'm sorry, I'm rambling and prying at the same time, I'm so rude," Hank said almost robotically, sitting up and blushing.

Peter chuckled, scratching the back of his head. "You're a real beast, McCoy," he joked, and Hank laughed quietly. "Nah, it was... I dye it," he stated, nodding. Hank looked surprised, his mouth turning into a small O. "Yeah, I've been doing it gray for so long I don't even think the FBI realized it's not my natural color."

"That's funny!" Hank agreed, grinning. Peter was almost taken aback at Hank's smile. The man had _sharp_ teeth. Not like... shark teeth or anything, but his canines looked like they could rip through flesh if he wanted to. "You're looking at my teeth, right?" he asked, not offended or embarrassed sounding in the least.

"Yeah- uh... sorry, they're just cool," he said, pointing at his own mouth a bit for emphasis. Hank smiled again, and Peter nearly sighed; the man had a _gorgeous_ smile.

"Good morning everyone, I hope you all slept well. Hank McCoy, it's always good to see you," Charles said as he glided into the room. He looked more professional today, having ditched the floral shirt and leather jacket for a white button down and a blue sweater vest. His hair was even combed; and it looked _nice_.

"Hi Charles! I _heard_ they let you on this case! How have you been? It's been _years!_" Hank bubbled, and Charles sat down in the chair next to Peter, looking more at ease than he'd looked the entire time he'd been here.

"Well, I've been fine, Hank. Arbitrary detective work isn't exactly easy when you aren't connected with the bureau anymore. How about you? It certainly _has_ been a while, hasn't it?" the British man agreed, pulling his tablet from the briefcase he carried. Hank blushed and nodded, smiling slightly.

"I'm alright, Charles," he said, his cheeks turning steadily pink. Peter leaned on his arm, looking at the two agents curiously.

"You two dated, didn't you?" it was more of a statement than a question, going by his tone. Charles and Hank both looked up with wide eyes, the older glaring harshly at Peter like he had just said something terrible. "What? The eye fucking isn't exactly subtle."

Hank gasped, and then chuckled, looking over with beet red cheeks at Charles, who looked like he was about to die from embarrassment. The man cleared his throat, still glaring at Peter. "Ahem. Yes, we dated. But that was a while ago, and we have no need to discuss that now," he stated in a calm voice. Peter rolled his eyes and Charles blushed even deeper. "_And we were not eye fucking!_" he snapped._  
_

"Rogue's takin' a day," Logan stated in his brusque voice as he strode into the room, pulling up his jeans by the belt loops. "Says Remy got real sick over the night, she's a lil' bit worried. Can't blame 'er though. The guy looks like he could get broken in half by a _light breeze_."

Charles sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Dammit, we needed her today," he grumbled, but didn't say anything further on the matter. "Alright, let's get this started. Warren, how kind of you to grace us with your presence," Charles shot at the blonde man entering the room.

"Dude, sorry I'm late. And on that note, I'm not late, look at the clock. Hey Peter," Warren said with a raised eyebrow. Then again, he _always_ seemed to have his eyebrow raised. The silver haired man waved at him slightly, and the man strode up to the projector screen, his draping gray shirt showing off his back, which was tattooed with elegant angel wings.

"Does dress code mean nothing to you?" Charles snapped, and Warren grinned a dazzling white smile over his shoulder.

"This isn't middle school anymore, man. Besides, I get a freebie from the higher ups. Just cause I'm more skilled than you doesn't mean you gotta be jealous," the blonde man said mockingly. Peter chuckled and Hank laughed at Charles' disgruntled face, but they were silenced when Warren turned on the projector. "Okay. So let's talk victims."

Warren pressed the remote and a picture of an enormous man in his thirties. He had narrowed eyes and a thick brow, his hair shaved into a short mohawk. The technical analyst tossed his hair out of his eyes, setting the computer he had been holding down on the small table beside the projector screen. "Okay, so this is Frederick Dukes, he's a pro wrestler, stage named 'The Blob'."

"Hey I know that guy," Logan stated, shaking his head. "Haven't heard from him in years." Warren stood there awkwardly, his head pulled back to form multiple chins, before he muttered,

"Sorry for your loss, man." The gruff detective in the seat at the table waved his hand dismissively, and Warren continued, clicking the remote in his hand to move on to the next picture. "So about two months ago he was found dead in this alleyway and uh... yeah, that's a lamp post. Cause of death... well..."

"Yes, that was definitely the cause of death this time. Look at the blood," Charles muttered to Peter, who was staring intently at the screen. "There wasn't that much on Emma Frost's body." The silver haired man nodded in agreement, his eyes still locked on the photo of Fred Dukes' dead body.

Warren clicked the remote again and another picture opened on the screen. This time it was a white male in his late twenties, with feathery brown hair and a pair of red sunglasses sitting on his nose. His teeth were bright white, and he looked like the type of guy who'd say, 'Sure you can beat the shit out of me but my family will sue your pants off'.

"Okay, so this is Scott Summers, the second victim. He was found last month in one of the labs at Trask Industries. Uh, he works there. Yeah, so," Warren shook he remote several times, fumbling with the button, "Look away if you're squeamish." The image that flashed up on the screen made everyone but Logan gasp.

The man, Scott Summers, had his wrists pinned to the wall with what appeared to be bent table legs, and his chest had been pierced with a demolished microscope. But that wasn't the most gruesome part. His face was covered in blood, his eye sockets dark and empty; someone had gouged his eyes out. "Dear lord," Charles breathed.

Warren nodded, his face contorted with disgust, though he wasn't even looking at the picture. "Yeah, I know. And I wish someone would've told me before I looked at the files. I couldn't sleep for _days!_ And this is why I never talk to my friends about my job!"

The others nodded with bemused smiles on their faces, and Warren pressed the remote again. This time, a middle aged white woman appeared on the screen. "Kayla Silverfox," he stated. The woman, Kayla Silverfox, had a round face, with stunning eyes and long black hair that fell in elegant waves around her shoulders. "She was killed three weeks ago in the back parking lot of a Denny's in Virginia. The daughter said she witnessed the whole thing."

More images flashed onto the screen, of Kayla's bruised and pale body, and Warren looked away, biting his lip. "Sorry, I don't like looking at them. Anyway, cause of death was... okay, sorry... cause of death was suffocation. From this lamp around her neck."

The technical analyst looked away from the screen again as two more pictures flashed up on the screen. The woman's neck was tightly wrapped with the pole of a small lamp, probably from the outside of the building. Logan let out a low whistle. "You sure that's the cause of death, bub?" he asked, and Warren shrugged.

"I mean they checked for other things that might've caused it, but that _was_ the most obvious, and forensics didn't show anything else. Oh, and those photos are on your tablets too. Glad you figured that out, Hank."

Hank tilted his head, staring intently at the picture on his tablet. It was Kayla's face, and part of her bruised neck. "Um, I'd like to take a look at this body after we're done. Is she readily accessible?" he inquired, raising his hand slightly as if he were in school. Warren nodded, gesturing out of the room.

"Yeah, we can have it transferred to our crime lab. The 12th is holding it right now," he stated, giving Hank a thumbs up.

Charles glared harshly at Peter, who was tapping on his tablet more than the others. "This is _far_ from the time for you to be on Facebook," he whispered harshly, leaning over. But Peter ignored him, and put his tablet down on the table.

"Why was Kayla Silverfox in Virginia?" he asked loudly, interrupting whatever Warren had been saying. The other detectives all looked at him, and Warren cleared his throat.

"Well she does _live_ here..."

"No, I mean why was she _still_ in Virginia? Look," Peter said, standing up and walking toward Warren's computer, which was sat next to the projector screen. "You don't mind if I..." he pointed to the keyboard, and Warren shrugged.

"Go ahead."

Peter minimized the tab they had been on, pulling up Facebook. Warren's most recent selfie flashed up on the screen, and the blonde man blushed awkwardly as Peter searched a different person. "Okay, see? Here's Kayla Silverfox's Facebook page, right? So here she links to her twitter," Peter clicked the link, and Twitter was pulled up on the screen. "Ooh, she's popular. Okay, so _here_, she links to her _Pinterest_, I never understood that website. So from Pinterest she links to her _Tumblr_, where she put up this post four weeks ago."

The post, in turn, was a photograph of Kayla Silverfox in an airport terminal, with a caption underneath. "I won't be in contact for a few weeks, guys. Going on vacation to Germany. Kisses," Charles read aloud, his brow furrowed. "That was a week before she died, how was she killed in Virginia?"

"That's what I was wondering!" Peter shouted, and Hank furrowed his brow.

"So either someone grabbed her up in Germany and flew her all the way back to the states just to kill her-" he began in a suspicious voice, and Charles cut him off.

"Or she was snagged out of the airport," he muttered.

Warren nodded in agreement as Peter moved away from his computer. "You're right, man. But check out the next victim." He pulled up a picture of Emma Frost, a smiling woman in her early thirties with tan skin and blonde hair. "So that's Emma Frost, for you guys who weren't at the crime scene, and as Charles and Peter suggested to forensics, they checked and the cause of death was _not_, in fact, the massive ass scaffolding that... is impaling her in the stomach, which is nasty by the way and I'd like to tell Magneto that when we find him because holy shit."

"So what _is_ the cause of death then?" Logan demanded, and Warren clicked onto the next picture, which was the back of Emma Frost's neck. Under her hair was a large bruise, cut open slightly.

The blonde pointed to the bruise on her neck, and all the detectives leaned forward to look. "Blunt force trauma to the back of the cranium."

"So someone _hit her_ with something?" Charles asked impatiently, and Warren shrugged, shaking his head.

"They think the victim actually _fell_ and hit a table or a ledge or something, either that or she was pushed. The scaffolding was... well..." Warren imitated shoving a scaffolding into someone, "Almost a half an hour postmortem."

Peter stared curiously at the screen for a moment, biting his middle finger. "Anybody else find it weird that Magneto would do that after she's already dead? That's overkill. And why take her jewelry? It's like he's highlighting a personal connection for us."

Warren nodded. "I thought it was weird too. They um, they actually found Emma Frost's jewelry a few blocks down in a dumpster. It matched to the marks from the ones she was wearing."

"That must'a been real tight jewelry to leave a mark like that on her skin," Logan began gruffly, rubbing his stubbly chin with a furrowed brow.

Peter snapped, pointing at him. "Or someone grabbed her by the wrist and made the indent," he finished, and Logan held out a hand for a fist bump. Charles shook his head.

"So someone was trying to stop her from getting away?" he asked, and Peter stared at the picture on his tablet, where the marks from the bracelet were on her skin.

"I don't think that's the case at all, actually. I think Emma Frost's death was an accident."

The other detectives stared at him, and Peter sighed, standing up. "Hank, can I use you real quick?" he asked, and Hank looked around nervously, nodding and joining Peter in the front of the room. "Okay, watch this."

Peter careened backwards suddenly, and Hank lunged forward, grabbing him by the wrist. The silver haired man felt his monitor dig into his flesh, and he kept his weight back so the taller man would have to continue holding his wrist. "See that? If Emma Frost was wearing a bracelet, and someone tried to stop her from falling backwards, they'd be pressing that thing right into her skin. It's only been a few seconds and look at what my watch did with Hank's grip."

The young man pushed his monitor forward a bit, after standing up, and there were red indents in his wrist. "So all I'm saying is if Emma Frost was meant to be killed, why would she have those marks on her? I think whoever was holding her might be our killer."

"You think Magneto tried to _stop her_ from dying? That doesn't sound like something he'd do," Hank asked from his seat, pushing his glasses up his nose. Logan shrugged.

"Unless she was on his side. If she was working with him and she made 'im mad, he could'a pushed her," the gruff man suggested, and Hank nodded.

"And when he realized she was falling toward something hard, he grabbed her by the wrist to try and stop it," he added, and Charles rubbed his unshaven chin, raising one eyebrow.

"But she hit her head before he could, which killed her," he continued the theory. "He must've been shocked. I'm guessing he stood there for quite a bit like that, holding her wrist."

Hank scratched his ear, "And when he finally registered she was dead he had to cover it up. That's why he put the scaffolding in her."

"This is all great, you guys, but why didn't he pose it like somebody else? He's obviously skilled, it would've been easy to keep it out of our investigation," Warren stated, shaking his head and leaning against the table behind him. "Unless he was trying to throw us off. Maybe Emma Frost is more important to this case than we thought."

"I definitely think she had a personal connection to the met- Magneto," Charles agreed, gesturing to Warren. "Could we discuss the victims from the original case? I mean, you do have that, right?"

The agent nodded quickly, turning around and going through the files on his computer. He found it with ease, and began to flip through the photos with the clicker. "So these were the original murders from the 2004 case. First we have Kitty Pryde, local high school student. Desk lamp through the neck in 2004. Mortimer Toynbee, janitor at a shopping mall. The metal from the wheels on his cart was like... stuck in his head, so... Anyway," Warren shook off the eeriness of the picture and went on.

"Peter Parker, photographer in the local paper, found by a restaurant stuck in a wall with forks and shit, which is also nasty, Jesus fucking Christ. Okay, sorry. Piotr Rasputin, fourth victim, he was ex military and his gun was literally shoved into his chest. Fucking hell. Um, Jonathan Storm, is another, he wasn't connected to the Magneto case until later, cause he was lit on fire. Then there was America Chavez and Theodore Altman, and the case went cold after that, but the guy taunted us in the mail for weeks."

The whole room was silent, until Hank let out a small, "Oh." Everyone looked at him, and he shook his head in awe. "I just... I never realized how many people died. I mean... I'd seen the statistics, the numbers, but... it never really _registered_."

"I know, Hank," Warren agreed quietly, and Logan gave him a squeeze on the shoulder. The room fell quiet again, until Logan finally spoke up.

"We need to start digging deeper into the victim's lives. Peter, you and Chuck go talk to Kayla Silverfox's family. She's got a daughter named Maria and a husband named Jack. Warren, look into the victim's pasts, see if they cross over anywhere. All of 'em, too. That means the old ones _and_ the new ones. Me and Hank'll start working the profile. Oh, and Warren, call the 12th, get that body," he commanded, standing up.

"Let's get to work."


	10. Chapter 10

**I have the next few chapters written out, I just need to revise a bit, so they should be up faster than usual. Drop a review please?**

"I'm so sorry for your loss," Charles said in a solemn voice. He was seated on a pea colored couch, across from Kayla Silverfox's daughter, Maria. Jack, the husband, was pacing the floor behind the chair Maria sat in, shaking his head in despair. Charles felt pity for them; it wasn't every day you lost your mother or wife in such a terrible way. "Is there anything you can tell us about your mother's trip to Germany? Anything at all?"_  
_

Maria sniffled, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, and shrugged. "She was so excited," she said, her voice wobbling. "It was all she could talk about."

Charles put his hand on her knee, a comforting gesture. "Was your mother acting... strange? At all, before she was meant to leave?" he asked, and Maria looked up at him, tears still brimming in her eyes.

"You mean like canceling the trip?" she asked in a high pitched voice, and Charles looked at her with confusion, shaking his head.

"Canceling the trip? We didn't know that," Peter said, scratching his head and staring at her. Maria nodded, wiping her eyes again and sniffling. "Did she say why?" The dark haired woman shook her head, and Jack stopped pacing for a moment to look at the two agents on his couch.

"She wouldn't explain it," he choked, "I asked her for days why she suddenly decided to come back, but she refused to tell me. Maybe if I'd done something else, kept asking, she wouldn't have been killed."

Charles sat up straighter, looking at Jack sternly. "None of this was your fault, Mr. Silverfox. The man we're looking for is a psychopath, and has killed before. You couldn't have done anything to prevent this," he stated, and Jack turned his head away, letting several silent tears fall down his face. "You say you witnessed it?" Charles asked, turning back to Maria, who nodded. "What did you see?"

"I saw... I saw a man," she whispered, staring down at the floor. "My mom had gone out for a minute to call... to call her boss. To tell him... she needed a day off. She works all the time. I went out..." Maria choked on her words a bit, wiping her eyes, and Charles put his hand on her knee once again. "I went out to smoke. I thought she might want one too. But I saw this _man_. I was watching through the window, I couldn't see who it was, and he hit her with something. Then he... he bent something around her neck, and hung her up, and I knew she was dead, but I went and got help-"

Maria started to cry, her head in her hands, and the two detectives looked on with sympathy in their eyes. When she had calmed down a bit, though she wasn't looking at them, Peter finally tried to continue the questioning. "I'm so sorry, Maria. I understand how you feel-"

The woman looked up at him with malice, gritting her teeth, "You _understand_ how I _feel!?_ HOW COULD YOU UNDERSTAND HOW I FEEL!?" she screamed, tears falling down her face. Peter and Charles jumped at her sudden outburst, and Charles tried to calm her down. "YOU DON'T KNOW HOW I FEEL! YOUR MOTHER WASN'T MURDERED IN FRONT OF YOU!"

There was dead silence in the room, and Peter stood up, his face halfway between sadness and anger. He didn't say anything; he just walked directly out of the house, closing the door harshly behind him. Maria's eyes flashed from the door to Charles in horror. "Oh my god," she whispered, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. "She wasn't- I didn't-"

"Let's continue the interview, Maria. I'll talk to Peter afterward," Charles said in a quiet voice, glancing at the door where his partner had left. _Why did he storm out like that?_ The agent wondered to himself as he turned back to Maria. _  
_

* * *

Charles thanked the Silverfoxes and walked down the stoop of their suburban house, toward the black SUV they had driven there. He made his way across the gravel driveway, and rounded the front of the vehicle, where Peter was leaning against the passenger's door. The young man looked solemn, staring into the well-trimmed bushes with a dead expression in his eyes. There was a cigarette between his fingers, and Charles raised an eyebrow.

"You know those things can kill you," he stated in a joking tone. Peter shrugged and sighed, tossing the white thing to the ground to pulverize it into the gravel with his shoe. "I didn't know you smoked."

"I don't," Peter responded immediately, not looking up at Charles. Neither of them spoke for quite some time, awkwardly leaning against the vehicle. "I'm sorry if I ruined the interview. I overreacted," he finally sighed, and Charles shook his head.

"You didn't ruin the interview, Peter. In fact, Maria was more willing to cooperate with my questions once she thought she'd upset you," he told him, and Peter turned his head further away from Charles.

"She _did_ upset me," he grumbled, and Charles put a hand on his shoulder.

"What happened to your mother, Peter?" he asked quietly. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to." Peter shook his head, shrugging.

"Nothing happened to my mother. I'm just having a bad day," he sighed, "Non compliant witnesses get on my nerves, I guess. I didn't want to blow the interview by yelling at her." The silver haired man stood up straight, opening the door to the passenger's seat. "Let's go. Logan texted me and said we should come back to headquarters."

Charles didn't say anything else; he just walked around the front of the SUV and climbed into the driver's seat. He got the feeling that Peter wasn't telling him something, but he wasn't about to press the issue with the already irritated boy.

_"Look, I'm sorry," Charles groaned as his partner silently drove their car. He didn't respond, didn't even acknowledge that the younger man beside him had said anything, and he kept his eyes on the road. Charles stretched out and turned, making a pleading face in his direction. "Darling I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to offend you like that."_

_"Well it's too late for that, isn't it, Charles?" he snapped, and Charles bit his lip, turning away from the man in the driver's seat. There was tense silence for the next few miles, until the car suddenly swerved off the road and came to a halting stop. "Look," the man sighed, putting a firm hand on Charles' shoulder. "I shouldn't have reacted so harshly. And I apologize. Family is just a sensitive topic for me."_

_Charles grumbled, his eyes still cast away from the man. "I only asked if you had children. It was an innocent question."_

_"I know it was, that's why I'm sorry. I overreacted. The men in my family have a tendency to do that," he chuckled, looking away awkwardly. "I have a son and a daughter. They're with a woman I used to be with. I saw them once when they were small children, back in the nineties when I helped her move into a new house."_

_Charles looked up at him with a smile slowly spreading on his face. "What do they look like?" he asked curiously, and the man beside him grinned with pride._

_"They're twins. Uncanny likeness. The girl cuts her hair short and the boy grows his out long, I kept forgetting who was who. They do look more like her than me, but the girl definitely got my temper," he laughed, and Charles smiled fondly at the man across from him. "I haven't heard from them since I helped with the move, however. I suppose that's why I reacted that way when you asked."_

_"It's alright, love, I understand," Charles said, and the man smiled once again, patting him on the shoulder and turning back to the wheel. _

_"Now shall we get back on the road?"_

"CHARLES!" Peter's loud and quite terrified exclamation snapped Charles out of his dazed flashback, and he realized in an instant that he was swerving off the road. He slammed his foot on the brakes as they drove onto the grass next to the nearly empty road, and sat frozen in his seat, hands clenched around the steering wheel with his eyes wide. There was no sound, other than he and Peter trying to catch their breath, until the younger detective looked at him. "What the _fuck_ was that, man!? Are you trying to _kill us!?_"

"I- I'm sorry, I don't know what that was," Charles stammered, his heart still hammering in his chest. Peter ran his fingers through his hair in a stressed-out manner, letting out several strangled noises.

"Holy shit, we could've died. Oh my fucking Jesus we could be dead right now. Fuck this shit I'm driving the rest of the way, get out of the fucking driver's seat," he babbled, unbuckling his seatbelt and opening the door. Charles was still in a state of shock, and was surprised when Peter flung his door open, gesturing harshly for him to get out of the car. "Get out, I'm driving."

"Peter, it was just a small mistake, I'm really fi-" he tried to reason, but the younger was having none of it.

"Get out of the car," he demanded, glaring. Charles raised an eyebrow defensively.

"I really can-"

"_Get out of the fucking car, man!_" Peter's voice raised three pitches, and Charles put his hands up in surrender, unbuckling his seatbelt to climb out of the car. When they were back on the road, Peter in the driver's seat and Charles in the passenger's, the other detective finally spoke. "If we died I would've haunted your ass."

* * *

"Remy you've gotta eat something, sweetie," Rogue groaned to her fiancee, who was laying on the couch, curled into a ball. He didn't respond, or move at all, and Rogue lightly touched his shoulder. "C'mon, please? I know you don't feel good, honey, but you've gotta eat."

The woman sighed and pushed the just-cleaned garbage bin toward the side of the couch, just in time for Remy to spill whatever remained of his last meal into it. Rogue rubbed the bridge of her nose, and checked her phone. There was a message from Logan, and several texts from Bobby, all of which were pictures of puppies. "I'll be right back, baby," Rogue said comfortingly, smiling down at her fiancee, who was now laying on the couch quietly, his arms hugged to his chest._  
_

The woman tossed her brown and white hair out of her eyes, walking down the hall and into their bedroom. She tapped on Logan's contact and hit the phone icon, calling him. The phone rang several times, and then the man picked up. "Rogue, hey," he greeted in his brusque voice. Rogue sighed with a slight smile, sitting down on the bed.

"Hey Logan," she responded, her voice tired. "What's the word?"

"We started working the profile, but reporters are all up on our asses about the case. I didn't tell the rest'a the guys cause I knew Chuck would flip his shit, but it's gettin' to be a problem." Rogue ran a hand through her hair, glancing back toward the other room, where Remy wasn't making a sound.

"I'll see what I can do when I get back. Mostly I'll just have to keep them at bay, but that's easy. Can I help at all with the profile, sugar?" she asked, trying to make up for the day she'd missed. Logan chuckled.

"Nah, kid. Take care of Remy. We've got it up here. I just need you to-" Logan was cut off when Rogue pulled the phone away from her ear.

"Remy?" she called, thinking she heard him say something. "Honey, are you alright?" There was no sound for a moment, and she could hear Logan asking if she was okay from the speaker by her chest.

"_Rogue!?_" Remy cried from the living room, and the woman's eyes went wide. He sounded scared, _terrified._ _  
_

"I've gotta go, Logan, I'm sorry," she said into the phone, throwing it down on the bed and running into the other room where her fiancee was. "Remy!?" she shouted, and then looked back toward the couch. He was still there, but he was sitting upright, looking around and frantically rubbing his eyes. "Baby, what's wrong?" she demanded, her voice shaking.

"I- Marie? I- I can't, I- Marie I can't see," he cried, his eyes opened and terrified. "_I can't see._"


	11. Chapter 11

"Right, okay. I'll see ya," Logan sighed into the phone, hanging up and shoving the device into his pocket. Hank looked up at him as the man rubbed his eyes, blowing air out through his pursed lips.

"You alright, Logan?" asked the young medical examiner, tilting his head. "You sound worried." Logan put his hand on the back of the chair he had previously been sitting in, scratching at the corner of his eye with a dissatisfied look on his face.

"Rogue's at the hospital with Remy, they're sayin' his brain was doin' something funky," the man stated, and Hank furrowed his brow with concern. "They don't know what yet, but at least he's stable."

"That's good, Remy seemed nice. I only met him once, and he was drunk, but still," Hank said in a quiet voice. Logan chuckled, clapping the man on the thin shoulder and walking back around to the white board. He crossed his arms and put one hand on his chin, rubbing the skin intently. His eyes were focused on the photos of the victims, which were lined up with the crime scene photos below.

Hank went back to studying the file about Kayla Silverfox's death. It was the messiest of all the killings, other than possibly Emma Frost's, and if he didn't know any better, he'd say it was a murder of convenience. _But that doesn't fit his MO. _Hank snapped in his mind, _Magneto doesn't kill out of opportunity, he kills for a reason. _

"I still don't get it," Logan grumbled after a long minute of silence.

Hank looked up from the file he had been studying, eyes wide. "Sorry, what don't you get?" the man inquired curiously, turning his chair when he sensed the long rant Logan was about to go on.

"I don't get the victims. In all my time in the BAU I've never seen a killer this diverse," he said, his thick brow furrowed deeply. "There's gotta be some sorta connection between them. They're not surrogates, _clearly_, there ain't nothin' vaguely similar 'bout their appearances. So what've they all been doing in their spare time that connects 'em?"

* * *

There was the sound of slurping, and then a cup of microwavable ramen was set down on top of a desk, just beside a case file nearly two inches thick. Warren Worthington III was seated in a spinning office chair, comfortably browsing the FBI's database to try and find connections between the victims. His fingers typed so fast it sounded unnatural on the keyboard, but so far he had discovered nothing.

It was stressful, working for the FBI, and he certainly wouldn't have taken this career by choice. Logan, from the Behavioral Analysis Unit, figured him out during a case, caught him in the midst of hacking their case file.

_"Listen, bub," said a gruff man with muscles that could probably bench press a small country, possibly Belgium, "I know what you did. I know who you are."_

_Across the table from the harsh FBI agent was a thin blonde man, his hair in a mess about his head, his eyes wide with fear. "Yeah, um, you did go through my ID when you came in here, so yeah... you know who I am, I guess," the young man said, his voice much shakier than he was hoping it would sound._

_"Sure, I know who ya are. Yer the son of Senator Worthington, Warren. Everybody knows who ya are, Warren," the man stated, a slight smile quirking at the edge of his mouth. "Or should I call ya Angel?"_

_Warren stiffened, his heart beating faster than he could imagine was possible, and he bit his tongue to stop himself from crying. "I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to do anything wrong," he squeaked, his voice cracking. "But my friend got murdered and I wanted to know what you guys know. I'm so sorry, I don't want to go to prison, my cousin went to prison and he said he had a plastic knife shoved into his asshole I don't want a plastic knife up my asshole, agent!_ Please don't arrest me!_"_

_The FBI agent chuckled, half sitting on the table, and he shook his head. "I'm not gonna arrest ya, kid, and yer not gonna get a plastic knife shoved up yer ass," he stated, and Warren almost allowed himself to sigh with relief. "I want ya to come in and help us with the rest of this case."_

_"H- help you? I, um, yes! Yes, I'll help you," Warren spluttered, and the man patted him on the shoulder, standing up. "Um, how long exactly am I going to be staying with you?"_

It had been five years since that day, with Warren working as their tech analyst, and he proved to be a very useful member of the team. And he appreciated the job, seeing as it was an _actual_ steady paying one, unlike his old hacking jobs, which got him by one day at a time. Now he could live comfortably in a nice apartment in a part of town he liked, instead of living in a commune with his cousin Charlie. (Yes, the one who got a plastic knife shoved up his ass)

The members of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, and the other teams he occasionally worked with, could be harsh, and demanding at times, but overall they treated him like part of their family.

And Warren had never been treated that way before.

His thoughts were interrupted when his computer let out a small bleeping noise into his earpiece, alerting him to the fact that it found something matching the keywords he'd typed in. At this point, he wasn't entirely sure _what it was_ that he typed in to get this result, but he was glad that he did.

Warren hit a few keys on a different keyboard, keeping the article on his screen. "Hey sexy!" he greeted as he was connected with the detective's phone.

"_Tell me something I want to hear, Warren. But keep it PG, you're on speaker,_" Peter responded, and Warren could hear Charles talking in the background.

"I had some sexy banter but Charles terrifies me, so I'll just tell you what I found. So apparently back in 1994, a seven-year-old Kitty Pryde was at her friend's house, and they were playing in the front yard. The friend went inside to get them both some Pepsi, and Kitty says she heard loud fighting from the house next door. I guess she got spooked so she ran back into her friend's house, but she still watched out the window, cause she could see into the house from there, and she saw this guy taking down this woman with a knife. Next day, Magda Romanov was found murdered in her house with her twin children hiding in the closet."_  
_

There was silence from the other end, until Peter finally sighed, "_Shit._" Warren nodded, pulling a face, and typed a bit more.

"But that's not all. I guess Kitty was so traumatized that she didn't _actually_ come forward about it until, wait for it-" he began, and he heard Charles sigh on the other line.

"_2004_," he speculated, and Warren snapped his fingers.

"Spot on, man. There was an article in the paper about it, and guess who the friend turned out to be," he continued, picking up his ramen and slurping it. "It was Maria Silverfox. They'd just moved there from Canada, and her parents didn't want to tell her."

"_I'm gonna bet Kayla Silverfox knew something. That's a connection. Alright, thanks Warren. We'll get back to you on that, we should be back at headquarters in like... fifteen minutes,_" Peter said, and Warren grinned, putting his ramen back on his desk.

"_Coolio, talk later,_" he responded, and hung up the call, entering a different number into his system to call Logan about what he'd discovered.

* * *

With a deep, exasperated sigh, Moira pushed another file of paperwork out of the way. She'd wanted this promotion for years, ever since she joined the bureau, really, but now that it had been forced upon her by Shaw... _I guess I sort of brought this upon myself... _she groaned, remembering the massive pile of papers to her left.

Moira grabbed the next stack, thunking it down on her desk and rubbing her temple. This job was everything to her. She'd gone to college for criminal justice, and ever since a lecturer came and talked about the BAU, she'd wanted to join.

Of course... she had chosen a different career option. But that didn't turn out well for her, and she was out of the CIA and in the FBI within a mere year and a half, Charles at her side.

Sighing once again, Moira looked up at the clock. _10:34 PM..._ she groaned in her head, rolling her eyes and letting her head fall down to the desk. She sat without moving for a good five minutes, before sitting back up and glancing out the door. Through the windows across the room from her, she could see the team Shaw had assembled arguing about something.

Moira chuckled, looking down at her papers sadly. _What I wouldn't give to be back in there with them..._ she thought, her shoulders slouching.

A knock at the door startled her out of her thoughts. Moira looked up in surprise, scrambling to make it look like she was working, but relaxed when she saw who it was. "Hey Peter," she greeted, and the younger man smiled at her from the doorway. "Come in, sit down. This work is killing me. I swear to God I'd kill a man to be back on the Magneto case."

Peter strolled up to her desk and took a seat, cross legged, on the chair across from her. "I take it the new job's fun, then?" he mocked, and Moira rolled her eyes with a chuckle. "_That_ great, huh. How's the BAU coping without Logan?"

Moira let out a long breath of air, pushing the papers to the side, and she tossed her hair out of her eyes. "They're doing fine. Can't wait to have him back, though," she admitted, and Peter nodded in agreement, picking at his nails. "How's the case going?"

"Eh, fine. Rogue's out for a week, but that's beside the point. Hey, uh, happy birthday by the way," he said in a chirpy tone, and Moira laughed, narrowing her eyes at him. "I got you something," Peter's eyes flashed up to the security camera behind him, but he kept a neutral tone. "Here, hope you like it."

She was about to protest that it wasn't actually her birthday, and her birthday wasn't even for another six months, but her young friend handed her a manilla folder, a bow neatly placed on top. With a start, Moira realized what it was. Her eyes widened, and Peter shot her a pointed look, as though to warn her to keep her expression passive.

Moira reached across the desk and took the folder, smiling. "Oh, thanks. I'll have to open it when I get home, but it's really sweet of you to give me something," she said, hoping that her voice hadn't betrayed anything.

"Well, Moira. Logan told us all to go home, but I have a few hours to kill. I don't suppose you would object to my hanging around," he asked, grinning. Moira smiled back, nodding.

"I would love it."

**Reviews?**


	12. Chapter 12

Rogue yawned as she sat in the brightly lit hospital, her legs curled into the hard hospital chair, her head resting on her fist. It had been nearly a week since she brought Remy into the ER, and every second had been as stressful as the last, and now she was just waiting for him to be released.

Her fiancee had, according to doctors, been experiencing violet ruptures in his occipital lobe, damaging his eyesight. They hadn't determined whether or not it would be permanent, but Rogue was hoping for the best. Now, however, the doctors wanted to keep him under surveillance until they could be sure he was completely stable. Rogue understood, she _really did_, but you couldn't blame her for wanting her fiancee back.

She glanced at the clock. _2:30 AM, _she groaned to herself, hefting herself up with a loud grunt. Rogue yawned, stretching her sore muscles and rubbing the place under her arm where she'd cramped in her awkward position. She stood up, pulling her phone from her pocket and removing her earbuds from where they were blasting music in her ears. She walked toward the coffee maker the hospital had in the waiting room, pouring herself a cup and going back to sit down.

As she walked, she dialed Logan's number, putting the phone up to her ear and taking a long sip of the bitter, watery coffee. Logan answered on the third ring. "_Hey, kiddo. Updates on the boo?_" he asked, and Rogue found herself vaguely comforted by the man's brusque voice. She leaned on the arm of the chair and smiled.

"He's gonna be alright, Logan," she said, her voice much more tired sounding than she had expected. "Thanks for askin'. Have you even left HQ since yesterday mornin'? You sound like you've been up at _least _that long." There was a chuckle from the other end.

"_Wish ya were wrong, kid. Whole team's been here, and I'm pretty sure we'll be ridin' the full forty eight if ya know what I'm saying__. Somebody leaked a few details to the media, so Shaw's pushin' us to get the profile out. I told 'im ta give me my whole team and maybe we'd get it done faster. He said he gave me Chuck and that's enough. I say bullshit. The guy hasn't been at it for ten years,_" Logan grumbled, and Rogue chuckled, tucking her hair behind her ears. "_But I got nothin' better ta be doing, so I figured it won't be too bad. Peter just crashed on the couch again, I'm gonna get Hank ta get him some coffee._"

"Alright, Logan. I'm _so_ sorry I haven't been there. But I started working on our press release, just so I wouldn't be _totally_ useless. I should be back in by Monday," Rogue sighed, glancing back up at the clock.

"_That's great, kid. The faster we can settle the media down, the better. I gotta go, take care of yerself,_" he said, and Rogue nodded.

"See you, Logan. Don't overwork yourself."

* * *

_"Magda Romanov?" asked the voice of a man from the front steps of the house. The door was open; it was a warm summer day, and only the screen had been closed. Her twin children were playing in the kitchen, and they could see the neighbor blowing bubbles with her friend in the front yard of the next house over. Magda walked out of the kitchen to see who was at the door, and her brow furrowed._

_"Yes, that is me," she said, approaching the door. The man through the screen was tall, with an upturned nose and sharp cheekbones. He had a thick, dark mustache and a pair of wire glasses seated on his nose. "How can I help you, sir?"_

_"You're going to invite me inside, Miss Romanov," the man stated, revealing a gun from his coat. Magda gasped, and took a step back. "And you're going to tell me what you know about a man named Erik Lensherr." _

Peter jolted upright as someone touched their hand to his shoulder, blinking at the lights shining from overhead. Leaning over him was Hank McCoy, who had a styrofoam cup of coffee in his hand, his glasses reflecting Peter's tired and confused face. "Hey Peter," he greeted quietly, "you dozed off. Logan had me get you some coffee."

"Oh," Peter responded, yawning and rubbing his eyes as the taller man handed him the cup of coffee, "Thanks, Hank."

"It's no problem. Hey, maybe you should go home," Hank added as Peter stood up. The detective looked at him with a raised eyebrow, still not fully awake, and Hank put a hand on his shoulder. "This is the third time you've fallen asleep."

The silver haired man chuckled, looking down at his coffee, and shook his head. "I'm fine, Hank." At the suspicious look he got, he added, "Really, I am. We've been here too long, I'm just tired."

"Look at that, sleeping beauty's awake," Logan called from across the room, and Peter laughed, downing the rest of his coffee and tossing the empty cup toward the bin. "Kid, get over here. I want you working on the profile with me. You want to join the BAU, right?"

Peter walked over to where Logan was standing, looking at the photos of the victims and crime scenes with a cocked eyebrow. "Yeah, I do. I know I'm not exactly subtle," he said, and Logan gestured to the photos.

"Alright then, tell me something 'bout this unsub," Logan ordered, and Peter shrugged, crossing his arms and staring at the crime scene photographs.

"Well, he's organized. All these murders were planned out meticulously. He doesn't leave any room for error. It's almost obsessive how clean he is," he observed, and Logan nodded in agreement, raising his eyebrow as if to say _go on_. Peter pursed his lips, widening his stance. "That's why Emma Frost's death doesn't make any sense. It was messy, unplanned. I know what I said about the unsub killing Frost by accident, but I don't think it was _his_ accident."

"So yer sayin' we've got a second unsub?" Logan asked, and Peter shrugged, scratching his ear.

"I mean it makes sense. I saw something in the files earlier, too. Me and Charles figured out that they were all seen by someone in disguise the day they were killed. So like," Peter squinted, spinning around and clasping his hands together, "What if that person is Magneto's right hand man. What if this person gains the trust of the vicim, and that allows Magneto full access to them to kill them?"

Logan nodded thoughtfully, scratching his sideburns, and he looked over at Peter with a proud look in his eyes. "That's a good one, kid." Peter cleared his throat and squared his shoulders, smiling slightly.

"Hey, um, I've gotta use the bathroom, I'll be right back," he said, and Logan nodded. The man's cell started ringing suddenly, and he pulled it from his pocket, answering before he even saw the number as he watched Peter leave.

"Howlett," he answered.

"_Who's your daddy?_" asked the voice of Warren, and Logan rolled his eyes dramatically. "_Logan you are going to kiss me. I have found Emma Frost's family._"

"Did ya? I'm impressed," he stated, grinning slightly.

"_Yeah, it was hard, but I'm a genius, so it's okay. They're named Richard and Kate Callahan, and her name isn't Emma Frost. It's actually Emilia Callahan, and she has got some ultrashit in her record. I'm talking drug possession and distribution, prostitution, petty theft, B 'n E, shoplifting, car theft, pickpocketing, god damn she's even held up a jewelry store! You name it this girl's probably done it,_" Warren said, and Logan nodded, his brow furrowed.

"Ya think that's how she got in touch with Magneto?" he asked, "Through crime?"

"_I am... not... sure, but I'll be back to you about that in a minute when I finish getting all the deets,_" Warren ended the call, and Logan put his phone in his pocket, glancing toward the door.

* * *

"_Peter, we're gonna to be in the states tomorrow night, up at the hawk's nest. It would be a good idea on your part to stay with us, just for the time being,_" said the crackly voice of Wade Wilson, through the phone speaker. Peter sighed, leaning on the sinks and rubbing his eyes. "_I know you don't think it's safe, but me 'n Ororo think you'll be better off with us than alone. You can trust us, don't worry._"

"I never said I didn't trust you, Wade. But I'm in the middle of a case, and the more we find out about it the more I get the feeling Schmidt is involved. The rest of the team could be in a lot of danger," he said, and the man on the other line spoke to someone else in a hushed voice.

"_Peter, if it was Schmidt I think you'd know,_" Wade continued, and Peter looked over his shoulder to make sure nobody was there with him.

"I just have a really bad feeling about this, man! Two of the victims were next door when my mom was..." he let the end of the sentence drop, rubbing his eyes and sighing. "It's just... after what happened with Ororo I'm freaked. It's probably just paranoia, but still."

"_Well just call if you change your mind, okay? I'm not gonna hit on you if you come and stay,_" Wade responded in a slightly lighter tone than he had been speaking in before. "_Really, Peter. We don't want you making a mistake with this._"

"I'll call. Thanks," he responded curtly, and the talk was ended from the other line. Peter sighed deeply, turning on the tap and splashing his face with water. It woke him up a tiny bit, and he dried himself off with the black sleeve of his shirt, turning the tap back off and rubbing his eyes again.

"You alright, kid?"

Peter yelped in shock, whirling around and drawing his gun, but relaxed when he saw it was only Logan. He put his weapon back in it's holster as the man behind him remained in a surrendering stance, hands in the air. "Jumpy much?"

"I'm sorry, Logan. I didn't mean to do that," he muttered, and Logan laughed, clapping him on the shoulder and grinning, but not saying anything. "This case just has me really freaked."

"I get it, kid. But yer doin' a great job. When we've wrapped it all up I wouldn't think twice 'bout puttin' in a recommendation for ya to join the BAU with Shaw," he said, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the bathroom wall. Peter looked up at him with a half smile on his face.

"Really? You'd do that?" Logan nodded, taking a deep breath and chuckling.

"I would. You've never met Shaw, have you?" he asked, and Peter shook his head, pulling a face.

"I'd prefer to keep it that way. From what I hear he's terrifying." Logan side eyed Peter as he pinched the bridge of his nose, and he took a step forward.

"You alright, kid?" he half-demanded, his gruff voice laced with concern. The younger man nodded, his shoulders slouching.

"I haven't been sleeping, Logan. We've been on this case for a week and a half now, and we've only just started to _actually_ get something. And living with you is great and all... I just... it's this job, you know? It's just messing with my head. I dunno," he sighed, shaking his head, and Logan put his hand on the younger man's shoulder.

"Peter, go home. Rashida from next door'll let you in, she's got a spare key. Come back in a few hours when you've got some shut eye. The rest've the team won't mind," he offered in a much softer tone than he usually speaks in.

Peter smiled toward the tiled floor, leaning into Logan's touch and squaring his shoulders. "Thanks, Logan. I'll do that," he sighed, and the older man ruffled his hair, pushing him slightly on the back toward the door. The two men exited the bathroom, and Logan watched over his shoulder as Peter walked toward the elevator, grabbing his jacket off the coat rack on his way out.

* * *

Truly, the only thing keeping Peter awake on the walk back to Logan's place were the constantly barking dogs and the occasional sound of fireworks. Then again, those may have been gunshots, but he never could be sure. The street was steep, and Logan's house was toward the top of a long hill. Cars were parked all along the sidewalk at haphazard angles, and discarded candy wrappers and plastic bags littered the ground.

Finally, after what seemed like all eternity, Peter saw Logan's house, a tall and thin building with one window on the front and a wooden door that looked like it could withstand bullets. The young man pulled his jacket tighter around himself as he pushed open the chain-link fence gate of the next door neighbor's house, walking up the small set of steps and knocking on her door.

It opened, and the elderly face of Rashida Lee was suddenly looking down at him through a screen door. Behind her, Peter managed to observe, the television was on, and her granddaughter Jubilation was laying on the couch in her underpants and bra.

"Hi, Rashida," Peter smiled tiredly as he turned his focus back to the face of the old Japanese woman through her screen door. Her gray hair was in curlers, and her reading glasses were perched on the edge of her nose. When she recognized who he was, she smile pleasantly and opened the screen.

"Peter! What are you doing awake at this time of night?" she asked, her voice twanged by a hint of an accent, and the young man chuckled slightly, raising an eyebrow.

"I could ask you the same thing, but I don't like to pry. Logan sent me home, but I don't have a key to get in. He said I should get your spare," he said, and Rashida patted him on the cheek, smiling and walking into her kitchen. There was the jingling of keys being taken off a hook, and she returned a second later with a shiny silver house key.

"There you go, dear. Have a lovely night," she smiled, and Peter gave her a friendly pat on the shoulder, before starting down her pathway.

"Thank you so much, Rashida. I owe you one," he called over his shoulder, and Rashida chuckled, turning to go back inside. Peter locked her gate back up and walked up the path to Logan's house. When he had reached the small porch, he heard Rashida's door open once again, and the old woman leaned out of the doorway.

"By the way, Peter!" she shouted, and the young man leaned on the porch railing to face her. "A man came by and said for me to tell you he left a package for you on the doormat!"

Peter looked over his shoulder at the welcome mat in front of Logan's door, and there was, indeed, a small wrapped package. "Thanks, Rashida!" he called back, and the woman closed her door once again. The young man tossed his hair out of his eyes and picked the package up, shaking it by his ear a bit. He unlocked the door and went inside, grinning when Logan's cat immediately walked up to him and rubbed it's head on his shoe.

He locked the door after he closed it and kicked off his boots, hanging his jacket up on the coat rack beside the entrance. He set the package down on the coffee table in front of the leather couch Logan owned, laying down on his side on said couch, using his arm as a pillow. _I can just see what the package was later..._ Peter decided as he closed his eyes, trying to go to sleep.

But after a minute, his curiosity got the better of him, and he sat up with a sigh, grabbing the package off the table and holding it in his hands. It was small and not heavy, wrapped in silver paper with a bow on top. Suddenly remembering the package Ororo had received, Peter's heart started to hammer. He cautiously pulled the paper off and shimmied the lid off the box, his eyes going wide as he saw what was inside.

It was a cassette tape labelled _Time in a Bottle, Jim Croce_.

* * *

**Reviews are always appreciated!**


	13. Chapter 13

"Rogue?" Logan asked as the woman walked through the door, her hair pulled back and her eyes devoid of the usual heavy makeup she wore. "What're ya doin' here, kid? I thought ya wouldn't be in 'til Monday?"

Rogue blew out a breath of air and tossed her jacket onto the table, pulling her tablet out of the bag on her arm. "Yeah, well, I figured I wasn't doin' any good for anybody stayin' at the hospital twenty-four-seven if I didn't have to. And Remy said I was gonna wear a hole in the floor with my pacing. What've we got on the profile?"

Hank turned around from where he was standing at the white board, Expo marker in hand. "Well we've figured out that he's got to be a white male in his mid to late fifties, based on Kitty Pryde's statement from 2004. She supposedly said the man she saw through the window was 'maybe thirty' which gives us a good estimate of how old he'd be now."

"We think he probably has a white collar job, but still manages to stay physically fit. He'd be very intimidating, the... the natural leader type, you know?" Charles added from his seat at the round table. Hank nodded in agreement, chuckling and twirling the Expo marker.

"Sort of like Shaw," Hank joked, and Rogue laughed. "Anyway, we're having Warren look into Emma Frost's past, you know, the most recent victim? We think she might have a personal connection to Magneto."

"And we think there might be a second unsub, who's gaining the trust of the victims before Magneto kills them," Charles continued, making the woman raise her eyebrow. "And that's Warren. Hello, Warren, please tell me you've found something good."

"_Oh, you're gonna love this one,_" Warren said from the other line. The other detectives rolled their eyes, being silent so he would continue. "_Okay, so I dug into Emma Frost's past to see who she had connections with. I'm talking family members, school pals, sports teams, you name it. And let me tell you that list was HUGE. Our girl Emma was a social butterfly with a bad streak. Anyway, in 2002, Emilia Callahan, not yet under the alias Emma Frost, was arrested for drug smuggling. The court record was sealed, but I'm amazing, so I got into it and found that she tried to get her dealer busted too._"

"Does it say who the dealer is?" Logan demanded, and Warren clicked his tongue.

"_You underestimate my power, Logan. It does indeed say who the dealer is, but she didn't manage to get him arrested with her. However, two years later, in 2004 when the Magneto case was officially opened, he was caught by the FBI in New York en route to Amsterdam with the help of several Interpol members whose names are blacked out._"

Charles felt his heart stop in his chest, his eyes going wide as Warren continued to speak. "_Okay, name was Erik Lensherr, and oh my, Moira and Charles worked that case and were on the scene when he was caught. But Lensherr got away. Charles, care to elaborate?_" he inquired curiously, and the detective shrugged.

"We got him at the airport and when I chased after him, Moira tried to fire and got me in the back by accident. I blacked out, I don't know what happened," he shrugged, and the other detectives eyed him suspiciously before going back to the speaker which Warren was talking out of.

"_Well that's not good. I just looked him up and our boy Erik has got some serious shit on him before the drugs came up. Looks like he was a bit of a freedom fighter, if you put it kindly. Arrests for rioting, harassment, minor arson, protest, oh my shit he hijacked a police van and then held a rally. And this was all before he turned eighteen, and... okay, he was living in Germany when all this happened,_" said Warren's voice, and Logan raised his eyebrow. "_Then shit turns to ultra shit, now he's in the states, and he gets busted for drugs, assault, starting riots, major arson, and he tried to murder a banker._"

Logan let out a low whistle, and Hank sighed. "He sounds like a nice fellow," he said sarcastically, and Rogue snorted. The sound of Warren's keyboard clicking came from the speaker, and then he made some noises.

"_Okay, so I just ran the Interpol names through my system and it's still not giving me anything. I'm gonna use a font decoder to try and get them out, maybe they have some connection to this case,_" he sighed, and the speaker wend dead, signaling that Warren had ended the call.

Rogue sat back, rubbing her eyes. "So we think Lensherr might be the unsub?" she asked in a tired voice, and Hank shook his head firmly.

"No, he's too young. We said he'd be in his fifties," he told her. Logan shrugged.

"The profile could be off," he suggested, but Charles denied him.

"Lensherr isn't the unsub," the man stated, and the others looked at him curiously. Charles cleared his throat, suddenly feeling incredibly awkward, and he took a deep breath. "I mean... I don't think Lensherr is the unsub. It doesn't fit with the profile we gave him."

There was a beep, and Warren was back on the line. The four detectives moved so they were all around the speaker once again, and their tech analyst's voice came out. "_Okay guys. So I did a bit of digging on Magda Romanov, right? Well it turns out her case was worked by the 12th Precinct, and they're supposed to still have it on record. So I asked if they did._"

"Why do I sense there's a but coming?" Charles groaned, rubbing his tired eyes.

"_Oh yes, you guessed it. A__nd it's a bigger butt than my ex girlfriend's. They sent one of their officers into the really old storage room, you know, like the really really old one. And guess what. The file was missing. Completely gone. They asked the cop who went in there last if she took it out, but she said she was going back there to get something else,_" Warren explained, and Logan licked his lips._  
_

"Who was the officer?" he asked, and Warren's keys clicked on the other line.

"_Um, a one Raven Darkholme. Popular member of the VPD for almost ten years now,_" Warren told them, and Charles sat up straighter.

"Raven Darkholme?" he demanded, and the others looked at him.

"You know her?" Rogue raised an eyebrow, her arms crossed, and Charles nodded as he furrowed his brow, turning back towards Warren's speaker.

"She's my adoptive sister, yes. Warren, could you find anything else about Magda Romanov?" he inquired, leaning on the table with one elbow. The sound of typing filled the room, and then Warren let out a long thinking noise.

"_Okay, yeah. So I did manage to find some old stuff on her. Apparently she belongs to a MASSIVE family of Romanian gypsies, who took in lost little kids by the dozen. Most of them weren't named, but Magda came over to the states back in 1990 when she was nineteen already with two three year old children and a boyfriend... lemme get the_ _records..._" he trailed off, typing. "_Oh._"

"Oh? What's oh?" Charles demanded, and Warren was silent for a moment.

"_The boyfriend was Erik Lensherr.__ Magda Romanov's boyfriend was Erik Lensherr,_" he said in a state of shock. Logan furrowed his brow deeply, crossing his arms and shifting.

"Any records of who the kids were? Maybe they're still alive," he suggested, and Warren typed for a moment.

"_No, no record of the kids. Their names weren't released in the press and they weren't documented on the trip here, so I'd have to get ahold of the original case file to find out,_" he sighed, and Logan cursed, shaking his head. "_So that's all I've got, sorry._"_  
_

Hank sat up straighter, leaning toward the speaker in the center of the table. "Hey, uh, Warren? Could you look into the Romanov family a little? The, uh, the one in Romania."

"_Totally, my scientific sweetheart, I'm on it right now,_" he agreed, and the speaker clicked, telling them Warren had turned off the line. Logan looked at the clock and rolled his eyes.

"We should all just go home," he groaned, and Rogue chuckled slightly. "What's that about, kid?"

"Nothin', it's just that I only got here like a half an hour ago. But if you guys wanna hit the sack in your own beds I don't blame you. I certainly would," she said, and Hank stood up, closing the file that had been in front of him and shoving it in his bag, along with his tablet. "There goes the boy genius."

"I'll be in tomorrow morning, don't worry," Hank commented, pulling on his jacket and walking swiftly out the door. Logan shrugged, turning back to the speaker on the table and hitting the red button on the side.

"_What can I do for the knights of the round table so soon after we spoke?_" Warren's voice asked. Logan smiled slightly, scratching the back of his neck.

"You can go home, Warren. I'm leavin', Hank just left, Peter went home a few hours ago. Ya deserve some sleep, kiddo," he told the tech analyst, who cooed over the line.

"_It's so sweet that you'd think of me, Logan! But nah, I'm good here. I just got into a new file, I'm not really interested in dropping it any time soon. Nobody else staying?_" he inquired, and Rogue leaned over the speaker.

"I'm stayin', baby boy. How 'bout I come down to your office, we can work better if we don't have to be callin' on the phone constantly," she suggested, and Warren made a noise of delight.

"_I like that idea, Rogue! See you in a few! Have a holly jolly night, Logan! Or I guess at this point it's morning._" The line went dead, and Logan ruffled Rogue's hair, swinging his jacket off the coat rack and shoving his arms down the sleeves.

"See ya later, kid," he said, and Rogue smiled, patting his hand and watching him walk out the door.

* * *

Hank took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, stuffing his house key clumsily into the scratched up lock and walking inside. His dog barked several times, dashing down the hallway and toward the tall agent, jumping up and licking his face. "Hi Beast!" he greeted in a cooing voice, scratching the golden retriever behind the ears playfully. "C'mon, buddy, you're probably hungry!"

He kicked his shoes off by the door and dropped his bag along with them, sliding down the hardwood floors on his socks, towards the kitchen. Hank grabbed the dog food from the high cabinet and reached to pull the lid off. However, he paused when he saw that a small post it note had been taped to the inside of the lid.

"Do you like the present I left you, you look good in blue. Check under the sink..." Hank read aloud, raising an eyebrow. "Okay then..." he didn't think anything of it; it was probably from his ex boyfriend, something he didn't see before. Shrugging, he knelt down with the dog food and dumped a heaping pile into Beast's bowl. Smiling fondly, he watched his dog eat for the first few seconds. He was about to walk away, when he saw something strange.

"What is that..." he muttered to himself, kneeling down behind his enormous dog and looking at his tail, which was wagging profusely. The bottom side was blue, and dripping a bit, along with the backs of his feet and some of his fur, as though he had sat in a pile of blue dye. "What is that, buddy? Did you get into the food coloring?"

Hank realized, as he looked behind him, that there was a trail of blue from where the dog had walked. Curiously, he stood up and followed it. It led around the entryway and down into the basement, where Hank switched on the light and strolled down the stairs, following the blue footprints and drips on the floor. It went around the concrete floor several times, and then back to a dark corner of the room. Hank made a face and walked across the unfinished basement, toward the corner, where the trail seemed to end.

There was a ticking noise that he became aware of, the closer he got to the corner, and when he saw what was there, he realized what the sound was.

Hank didn't even have time to blink before a bomb exploded in his face, knocking him back onto the floor.

**Reviews please friends?**


	14. Chapter 14

**Happy first day of Hanukkah you guys!**

* * *

"Where's Hank?" Logan asked as he observed the other agents seated at the round table. Warren looked around, shrugging, before going back to his laptop, where he was typing something that looked quite alike to a foreign language. Rogue sipped her coffee, some sugary shit from Starbucks that she begged Logan for when he was coming back to headquarters.

"He's probably just late," Peter suggested, and Logan nodded to himself, looking down at the file in his hands. The silver haired agent next to him went back to the cell phone in his hand, scrolling down a page and laughing to himself. "Hey, Charles. Why did the chicken cross the road?"

The profiler sighed deeply, rolling his eyes and scratching his head. "I don't know, Peter."

Peter giggled, and then grinned. "To get to the idiot's house."

"That was sad, kid. Yer makin' me wanna gouge my ears out," Logan told the younger in a gruff voice. Peter ignored him and laughed again, turning back to Charles.

"Okay, okay. Knock knock," he began, and Charles made a humming noise.

"Who's there?" his voice had gone up three pitches in annoyance, and Peter grinned smugly at him.

"The chicken."

After a moment of realization, Charles' mouth fell open and he glared at the laughing agent across the table from him. "You motherfucker!" he shouted, though he couldn't deny that there was a smile slowly spreading across his face. "I can't believe- did you people _hear_ that!?"

"I've gotta use that some time," Warren said from his place at his computer.

Suddenly everyone heard surprised exclamations from out in the desks common, and they all turned their heads toward the window to see what was going on. However, the next second, they understood why everyone was so shocked.

Hank was storming into the conference room where they all sat, fuming with rage, his hair and face blasted with a horrifyingly bright shade of blue.

After a very long moment of silence from the rest of the team, who were all leaning away from him, Rogue let out a snort. "Okay, I have more questions than I have years left on this earth," she stated in a humorous tone, but Hank looked very far from amused. "Really, Hank. What the hell happened to you?"

The man gritted his teeth, which looked frightening against the blue that looked like it had been splashed onto him carelessly. "This case," he growled, his teeth still clenched shut, "Just got _really_ fucking personal."

* * *

"I got home, fed my dog, and that's when I saw the note. I mean, _no_, I didn't think anything of it, I thought it was something from Jason, maybe! From like, a few years ago or something! I know that was dumb, but I thought maybe I hadn't noticed it before. And then I go down in the basement to see where the blue was coming from, and it was some sort of chemical bomb or something!" Hank ranted, pacing back and forth and waving his arms about.

"And ya didn't see anything out've the ordinary?" Logan asked, writing something down in a notepad. Hank shook his head aggressively, clenching his fists.

"No! Nothing! I got knocked out by the explosion but when I woke up there wasn't any evidence that a bomb had even _been_ detonated!" he shouted in distress. Logan put a hand up to try and calm Hank down. "I know, I know. I'm _trying_ to be calm. But this unsub just _broke _into my_ home_, Logan! I'd like to see how well you cope with that!"

Hank was on the verge of tears now, and Rogue jumped into the conversation before it could escalate any further. "Baby boy, what did you do after you woke up?" she asked in a soft, soothing voice. Hank relaxed slightly, looking at Rogue, who was seated by the window.

"I, um... I went back upstairs to... to see if my dog was okay," he told her, and Rogue smiled.

"And?" she prodded. Hank nodded, running a blue-stained hand through his brightly colored hair.

"And... uh, he was okay. He was fine. I don't think he knew anything was wrong, actually," he chuckled weakly to himself. Rogue made a gesture that told him to keep talking, and Hank licked his lips, taking a deep breath. "I went... I um... I looked at the post it on the dog food. I actually, uh," he began searching his pockets, before pulling a yellow post it note out of his jacket. "Here, that's it. Um, I looked at it and then did what it said, I looked under the sink, and that's where I found this."

Hank reached into his bag, which had been sat on the table, and he pulled out a folder, nearly an inch thick. "What's that?" Warren asked curiously, and Hank blinked slowly.

"It's..." he let out a breath, "It's the original case file on Magda Romanov's murder," Hank said in what was almost a whisper.

"What!?" Logan shouted, standing up. "Ya mean the _unsub_ is the bastard who got it out'a the police archives an' now he's _givin'_ it to us!?" Hank shook his head rapidly, opening the file and flipping through several of the pages.

"Um, no, he didn't give us what we wanted with this. I um, I think it's a taunt, actually. He cut the names of the children out of the paper so we can't see it," he told them, and Logan cursed, slamming his fist down on the table.

"The question is, how did he get the file in the first place?" Charles asked, shaking his head. "They don't let just anyone into their file rooms. This unsub would have to be a cop or some sort of authority figure."

Logan nodded, scratching behind his ear. "That'd change the profile altogether, bub. Ya sure 'bout that theory?" he demanded, and Charles nodded. "Well then let's get it up on the board."

He moved to write it on the white board, but Peter held up a hand to stop him. "Wait, Logan. The unsub _doesn't_ have to be a cop," he said in a hesitant tone. They all looked over to the young man, who took a deep breath and rubbed his eye. "I'm the one who took the file out of the records room at the 12th."

"Are ya joking, kid!?" Logan snapped, and Peter shook his head. "Why the hell did ya want the file!? And why didn't ya tell us you had it!?"

"I was doing my own research on it, my friend Wade wanted me to guest speak at the high school he teaches at. I didn't know you wanted it," he shrugged, not meeting Logan's eyes. "I'm sorry, Logan."

"It's alright, kid," the older man sighed, trying to regain his temper. "Do ya at least remember the kids names?" Peter shook his head solemnly. "Dammit," Logan cursed under his breath. "So we've got nothin!?" he shouted, and Rogue grabbed him by the shoulders.

"Can you _please_, for the _love of God_ calm your _ass_, Howlett!? Hanks' traumatized and Peter made a mistake, you can't blame everything on them! God, Logan! We've still got the profile, we've still got Emma Frost, we've got Warren, the fucking Jesus of hacking! Who cares about a stupid file!?" she screamed in his face, her teeth barred and her eyes narrowed. "We'll catch this guy with or without the information of Magda Romanov, now sit your ass down, and start workin' the profile again!"_  
_

The room fell silent, and Logan sat down in his chair quietly, not saying anything. Rogue walked back around the table, rubbing her temple tiredly. "Somebody get the media here before I slap a bitch. I'm ready to give the press release."

* * *

The room was dank, _windowless_, with a shade pulled down over a blank wall. A single, flickering lightbulb hung from the middle of the room, illuminating the cracked cement walls and two rusty cots. The cots were covered in dusty sheets, with tarps balanced haphazardly above them to protect the sleeping people from the water that drip, drip, dripped down from the ceiling.

On one bed sat a woman, with fiery red hair that hung loose around her face, and blue tattoos running all down her arms, back, and chest. She wore nothing but a pair of shorts, her upper half exposed, but the tattoos made for an excellent illusion that she was covered up. She was reading a book, something by Jane Eyre, occasionally flipping the page to go on.

On the other bed, a man was obsessively flipping through a file. His once feathery light hair was now unwashed and cut short, his eyes sunken and tired. He was muttering to himself, occasionally making a slightly louder noise in frustration.

The man shifted his position, so he was sitting cross legged and facing the wall. Then, after a moment of gritting his teeth and clenching his fists, he punched the cement. It hurt, needless to say, but he ignored the pain, punching at the already blood-stained wall harshly. Eventually his hands hurt too much to go on, so he fell back against his thin pillow, screaming in frustration.

"Erik could you be a little quieter?" Raven asked, rolling her eyes and flipping the page in her book. Erik groaned, rolling over in his cot, and his female companion looked up, her lips pursed. "Look, I know you want to avoid another death, but I have to wait for Angel to make the call. I can't just go walking around willy nilly screaming that people are gonna die."

"I know, I _know!_" Erik shouted, pressing his raw hands to his eyes. "Why can't she move faster!?"

Raven sighed, closing her book and setting it down beside her on the bed. "It takes time. If anybody found out about this, what we're _doing_, we'd lose our jobs and we'd go to jail. They'd probably even peg the murders on us. Angel's going as fast as she can."

"I know, I'm sorry, I know," Erik apologized, and the room returned to the tense silence it had been in before, the only sounds being the electric whirring of the lightbulb and the constant dripping of the water. "Why are we staying here, anyway?"

"Well, _I'm_ here to make sure you don't have a schizophrenic breakdown," Raven told him, her lips pursed and her legs crossed. "_You're_ here because you're a fugitive from the FBI, and this was the one place Angel knew we wouldn't be found."

"Okay, I knew that, I'm a fugitive," Erik sighed, frustrated. "I didn't kill anyone, did I?" he asked after a moment, looking up at Raven in horror. The woman snorted, shaking her head.

"Not on purpose, no. Emma Frost's death was on me, not you. I'm the one that overreacted and shoved her, you tried to save her," she confessed, and Erik tilted his head at her. "Erik you _knew this _two days ago! What happened!?"

The man didn't make any noise, he just sat up and shrugged, his face forlorn. Raven rubbed her eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get mad. It's just frustrating, you know?" Erik nodded, and the woman smiled, looking down at her hands. "I guess I'm still pissed that I had to wait at that bar all night dressed like that Janos guy without any show from Shaw. I'm just glad we managed to talk some sense into him, get him on our side. Janos is a nice person, I'd hate for things to go bad."

"I understand, Raven," Erik said politely from his place on the bed, and Raven sighed.

"I should probably get ready. Call might come in at any minute, and I don't want to miss it like I did with Silverfox." Raven stood up, striding across the wet floor to a tarp-covered chest, which she opened, pulling out a wig. "You think I should go blonde?"

* * *

Armando Muñoz was walking back to his car from work when he was approached by a blonde woman. She was wearing a leather jacket and jeans, and she looked like she had just freshly gotten off of a motorbike. As she came close enough, smiling at him, Armando raised an eyebrow. "Well hi there, gorgeous. How can I help you?" he asked in an attempted suave voice.

"Well, you can start by inviting me into your car," she suggested, biting her lip seductively. Armando wasn't one to go around picking up girls willy nilly, he'd tell you that right off the bat. But something about this girl made him agree.

"Of course, sweet thing, it's right up here," he said, only barely managing not to stammer. He and the woman walked to his small car, and she stood with her hands on her hips as he opened the passenger's door for her.

"A Prius," she observed, holding out the s, "Nice." She climbed into the car, and Armando walked around the front to his door, hopping into his seat and closing the door. He turned to the woman, leaning on the arm rest.

"So..." he trailed off, and the woman leaned in, one hand touching her face slightly.

"You're going to be murdered later tonight," she stated in a flat tone, though her body language and face remained seductive. Armando looked shocked, sitting back with his brow furrowed. "Armando, don't react. Play along. I'm Detective Raven Darkholme, VPD, and someone is going to try and murder you tonight." She continued to pretend to seduce him, her finger tracing up his arm.

Armando leaned back in, trying to return his face to it's suave state from before. "How do you know?" he asked, smiling like he was enjoying the conversation. Detective Darkholme leaned across the small island in the middle of the two seats and wrapped her arms around his neck, her cheek pressing into his.

"I have a source from within the FBI, her name is Angel Salvadore. Listen very carefully to what I'm about to tell you, Armando," she whispered into his ear, before trailing her lips across his cheek and to his mouth. She lithely climbed herself over the island so she was seated on his lap, and she kissed him harshly, shoving her hand down his pants. "I just put a set of keys in your pants, there's a car in an alley to your left, look briefly, and moan to let me know you see it."

Armando did as he was instructed, turning his head to the left. The detective was right; across the street from where they were was an alley, and a smart car was peeking out from behind a dumpster. He moaned, before turning his head back to her. "A smart car, really?" he asked as she kissed him down the neck.

"Don't complain, I'm trying to save your life," she told him, unbuttoning his shirt and stripping off her jacket. "The blue key is for the car, which has GPS instructions that will be destroyed as soon as it's switched off. They're going to lead you to an abandoned apartment complex. Once you've seen it, find a place to hide the car. The more discreet the better."

Detective Darkholme ran her hands down his toned chest, grinning like they were having the time of their lives. "After you hide the car, run as fast as you fucking can back to the apartment complex, and find apartment 203," she panted, sliding herself down into the well so she was straddled by his legs. "There's a man in there, his name is Alex Summers, and he's with the CIA. He's going to erase your existence from the planet earth and set you up in a different country with a new identity. Clutch the island and the door."

After a moment of confusion, Armando registered what she wanted him to do, and he groaned orgasmically, grasping the island and the door as he rolled his eyes back. "Seriously? I'm supposed to be sucking your dick, now act like I'm sucking your dick," Raven snapped, and Armando tried a bit harder. "Okay, that was better. Now do you understand your directions?"

"Smart car, GPS, hide the car, apartment 203. Got it," he responded, and Raven raised herself out of the well, panting and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"I'm gonna get out of the car and faint. In that distraction, run across the road and get in the car. Take the opposite side out and follow the rest of the directions from there," she told him, tossing her hair out of her eyes and climbing back over the island, into the passenger's side. "It was a pleasure, Armando. Stay safe," she said as she swung on her jacket and left the car, closing the door.

Raven looked back at him briefly, and Armando hardly had any time to think before she collapsed unceremoniously to the ground. Several people screamed and ran to help, and the dark skinned man realized that this was when he was supposed to run.

He opened the car door and didn't even bother closing it, running across the street and toward the smart car. Armando fished out the keys Raven had shoved into his pants, unlocking the car and all but leaping into the driver's seat. He shoved the keys into the ignition and turned on the GPS, speeding out of the alley with his heart pounding in his chest.

* * *

**Reviews please friends? Also shoutout to my friend silverhavok, she's super cool.**


	15. Chapter 15

**Okay yes, this chapter is kind of a piece of shit. But you know, with finals and everything what can ya do.**

* * *

At a café table in the middle of a large brick circle, people bustling about and talking in loud voices, sat a man in his late thirties. His face was marred with scars and red marks, shaded and nearly covered by a wide brimmed hat, pulled down low over his face. There was a singular cup of coffee in front of him, placed neatly next to a flip phone that probably should've been put out of use in 2005.

From across the plaza, in the mass of people, the man caught sight of a person with silver hair, who was walking pointedly toward the appliances display outside the cookware store. As he inspected a tea pot, he pulled out a flip phone, similar to the one on the table. Speaking of which, the cell phone next to the full cup of coffee rang as the silver haired man put his up to his ear.

The man at the table hit answer, and brought the phone up to his ear, under his hat. "We have one minute," he stated, and the line went dead. Across the plaza, the silver haired man, Peter Maximoff, put his phone back in his pocket and strolled over as casually as he could to the table, pulling out the chair across from the shadowy man and sitting down.

"Schmidt contacted me, Wade," he said, and Wade cursed quietly under his breath, looking back up as if to prod the man to go on. "I got home and this was wrapped and on my doorstep." Peter pulled a cassette tape from his coat pocket, sliding it across the table to the shadowed man with a disgusted look on his face.

"Are you going to come to Clint's?" Wade asked, looking up from the tape slightly. Peter put the tape back in his jacket, pursing his lips. "Did Schmidt do anything else? Was there a message?"

"He took the file on my mother's murder out of my house. Then he sent it to one of the other agents with mine and Wanda's names cut out of it. He's taunting me," Peter spat, and Wade gave him a pointed look from under the wide brim of his hat.

"Don't lose your head, Peter, I know you're better than this," he said, and Peter looked at him sideways. Wade had never acted this serious before. _What's the occasion? _"Does the rest of your team know-"

"No, they don't. It's _better_ if they don't. I don't want them getting hurt, Wade," Peter cut the other man off, glancing over his shoulder in a paranoid manner. "Has Schmidt gotten to anybody else?" Wade sighed, picking up his cup of coffee and sipping it.

"Remember Kate?" he asked, and Peter nodded.

"She was Clint's friend, right? She worked the bugs," he responded, and Wade nodded, pursing his lips together.

"Kate's dead, they found her body in London," the man ignored the look of distress on his friend's face, sipping his coffee again. "That's when me'n Ororo decided to pack up from Spain and head here. Kid, I really think it would be in your best interest to just come and stay with us. You can keep working your case, you'll just be in a more secure location."

"I don't really think Clint's penthouse counts as a 'secure location', Wade," Peter stated, raising his eyebrow in good humor. Wade waved his hand dismissively, chuckling.

"But he's got waterbeds, and a pizza oven. A _pizza oven_, man," he responded, and the silver haired man rolled his eyes. "Time's up, Peter. You know the drill."

"Yeah, I do." And with that, Peter stood up and walked away, tossing the flip phone into the garbage, though he'd only used it for a few seconds.

* * *

Moira hopped on one foot in her brightly lit kitchen, stirring pancake batter that was in a bowl resting on her left knee, and trying to read over the case file Peter had given her at the same time. She tossed her hair out of her eyes, spluttering to try and get a few pieces out of her mouth, and she checked the clock to see what time it was.

Setting the bowl down on the creme-colored countertop with a tad more force then was intended, Moira slid across the floor on her socks, toward the wooden kitchen table. She came to a halting stop, picking up her phone and licking the stray batter off her fingers, and dialed Peter's number. After three rings, he answered. "_Moira!_"

"Hey bitch, what's up?" she responded, holding her phone between the side of her head and her shoulder.

"_Nothing really, stopping at Panera before going to Quantico. What's the sitch?_" Peter asked, and Moira strolled back over to her pancake batter, picking up the large wooden spoon and scooping the batter into a pan on her stove.

"Alright, Kim Possible, you'd better have a notepad out. Remember the file you gave me?" she grinned, and Peter made a noise of confirmation from the other line. "Well, I did a bit of my own research on my day off yesterday, and you can be pleased to tell your team that I figured out the names of Magda Romanov's children."

There was silence for a moment, before Peter finally spoke up again. "_That's insane, Moira!_" he exclaimed, "_Sorry, I just put a bagel in my mouth when you said that. So are you gonna tell me who they were?_"

"I will indeed, dude," Moira said, shoving her spatula under the pancake, flipping it to the other side. "I take much pride in this, so you'd better be listening. The girl was named Wanda Romanov, and the boy was Pietro Romanov. God, I hope you guys haven't already figured that out," she cringed, and Peter laughed.

"_No, man, we couldn't figure it out at all! How did you get that?_" he asked curiously, and Moira smirked.

"I talked to Jack Silverfox. He said he didn't really know the Romanov's very well, but-" she was cut off by Peter, who made a noise of shock.

"_Charles said he called Jack Silverfox, the guy said he didn't remember the Romanov's at all,_" he stated, and Moira shrugged.

"I said I was a cousin of the Romanov's, he spilled everything," she admitted, and Peter laughed.

"_You didn't even have to flash the badge?_" _  
_

"Nope, never got to that point. I don't think he likes cops," Moira said, shaking her head and flipping the pancakes again.

"_Well thanks for the info, babe. I'll tell the team,_" Peter said, and it sounded like there was food in his mouth. Moira smiled, turning off the stove and putting her pancake on a plate.

"Coolio, darlin'. Tell Charles I said hi," she demanded, and her friend made fake vomiting noises from the other line. "Oh don't be a douche, tell him hi from me!"

After a bit of laughter, Peter finally responded. "_I will, see you!_"

"See you!" she said, and the phone call ended, leaving Moira to her pancakes and case files. She turned on the television, flipping through the channels to try and find the home improvement show she always watched, but she stopped when she saw the face of Marie Barfield standing at a podium. Moira sat down on her couch, turning the volume up, and realized that this was the press release about the Magneto case.

"_Now we urge caution, as this is a very sensitive case. If you think you might have any information, we'd like to ask you to please come to us about it. Now, if I could repeat, we believe the person committing these crimes is a white male in his early to mid fifties. Any questions, I'll take now,_" Rogue said, her hands resting on the sides of the podium.

* * *

"I'm so sorry about Emma- Em- Emilia, Mrs. Callahan," Charles said in an earnest voice, resting his elbows on his knees. The blonde woman across from him snorted, pushing her hair up with a manicured hand.

"Oh mark my words, detective. I knew Emmie'd end up like this one day," she responded with a thick New York accent. Charles recoiled at her dismissive tone, and furrowed his brow at her. Mrs. Callahan saw his expression and chuckled. "I gave up on that girl _years_ ago, and when she met that Schmidt guy, _ech!_" she shuddered dramatically. "I knew I wasn't never gonna get the daughter I wanted."

Charles shook his head slightly, his long dark hair falling into his face. "I'm sorry, that _who_ guy?" he asked, confused. Mrs. Callahan shrugged her fur-covered shoulders, waving her hand casually.

"Claus Schmidt. Never met him, but she talked about him all the time," she stated, "She said he was some high class business man who was gonna take her to Tahiti. I didn't believe that shizz for a minute." The detective opened his mouth, then closed it, folding his hands together and taking a deep breath.

"Could you excuse me for a moment, Mrs. Callahan?" he requested as the blonde woman unwrapped a piece of gum from her leather bag, popping it in her mouth and waving him away. Charles stood and walked swiftly out of the room, coming face to face with Logan. "Claus Schmidt, tell Warren I need everything on him."

"Got it, Chuck," Logan stated, and Charles pushed open the door, walking back in and sitting down.

"Can you tell me anything else about this... _Schmidt_ character?" he asked, and Mrs. Callahan sighed, rolling her eyes and shaking her head.

"I already told you, I never met the guy."

Charles adjusted the way he was sitting, his elbows resting on his knees. "Anything Emilia might have mentioned? Believe me, no matter how small you think it may be, we could use whatever you've got," he continued, and Mrs. Callahan shrugged, shaking her head once again. "Alright, um. Have you ever heard of a woman named Magda Romanov? Possibly with two children, one a boy and one a girl?" he asked, and Mrs. Callahan popped her gum.

"Romanov is a pretty common name, detective," she stated, and Charles nearly sighed in frustration. "But I heard Emmie say it once." Charles looked back up at her with wide eyes, his mouth hanging open.

"You did? Uh- any chance you remember what context she said it in?" he inquired, and Mrs. Callahan looked upward, squinting her eyes as though trying to think. Then she snapped her fingers, looking down at him.

"It was over dinner, I think, when she was about seventeen, right after she met Schmidt," she said, pursing her shiny lips and closing her eyes. "I don't know how it came up, but she mentioned the name and got all defensive when I asked her about it."

Charles sat forward, clasping his hands together and nodding. "Did the name Magda come up in the same conversation?" he asked, and Mrs. Callahan shook her head curtly.

"Not Magda, no. It was some other girl's name, lemme think. Something like Wendy or... I'm thinking Fairly Odd Parents," she said, snapping her fingers with her eyes closed. Charles sat up a bit straighter and scratched his head slightly.

"Wa- Wanda?" he guessed, and Mrs. Callahan opened her eyes, pointing at him and popping her gum again.

"Wanda, that was it. Wanda Romanov," she agreed, and Charles almost grinned. Mrs. Callahan pushed up her enormous blonde hair once again, glancing up at the ceiling in thought. "There were some other names too, but the only one sticking out for me is um... it was some Romanian sounding name, I don't know."

Charles opened his mouth to speak, but Hank swung the door open suddenly, barging into the room. "Charles," he whispered harshly, as though Mrs. Callahan wouldn't hear him if he did. "Warren wants to talk to us."

"I'm so sorry for all the interruptions, Mrs. Callahan. Please, have a cup of coffee while you wait," Charles said as pleasantly as he could to the woman in the chair, standing and following Hank out of the room. They walked down the hall and into their case room, standing around the table with the other three agents. "This had better be good, Warren."

"_Oh it is, Charles. I was looking further into Interpol from 2004, because I still haven't been able to get the names off the Magneto record, and what I found is some intense ultra shit,_" he stated out of the speaker, and out of the corner of his eye, Charles could have sworn he saw Peter visibly stiffen. "_Interpol was working a subject sensitive case in Germany back in 2003, about a year before Erik Lensherr was busted. Now, the records are sealed, but I managed to get a tiny bit of info out, and what it says is that the subject of their investigation had a thing for intelligent teenagers, boy or girl._"

"Disgusting," Logan huffed under his breath, and the others nodded in agreement.

"_I know, I hate this guy already. Anyway, Interpol needed a way to get inside his operation, so they enlisted the help of one of their youngest agents, who had just turned seventeen._"

"How does a seventeen year old kid get into _Interpol?_" Rogue asked, her eyebrows raised, and Logan shrugged.

"_No clue, my southern belle.__ The name is sealed but I'm working on getting it out. Anyway, the kid was doing a great job, but he wasn't getting information out fast enough, so Interpol, good lord they're assholes! Sorry, Interpol sent in another seventeen year old agent to try and help get the information they needed to call the authorities and make an arrest,_" Warren explained, and Charles rubbed his eyes._  
_

"I'm taking it things didn't go well?" he asked, and Warren took a deep breath.

"_I mean I'm guessing it fell to shit because the rest of the record is like... double triple locked under the earth itself,_" he stated. Charles leaned on the table, toward the speaker._  
_

"Warren, could you text match the names Claus Schmidt and Wanda Romanov with the document?" he inquired, and there was the sound of clicking keys from the other end. Peter stepped forward and looked at Charles with concern.

"Why those names?" he asked, and if Charles didn't know any better he'd say the boy sounded _worried_.

"_Charles I don't know how you did it but there is a match for BOTH names in the document,_" Warren stated from the speaker, his voice riddled with amazement. "_Wanda Romanov was the second seventeen year old agent to infiltrate. And it looks like Claus Schmidt was the one they were after._"

"Schmidt might be our unsub. If Wanda was out for vengeance when she took the mission she could've jeopardized the entire thing," Rogue observed, and Logan nodded in agreement, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "Warren, find out whatever you can about Claus Schmidt. See if you can find where he's at now."

"_You've got it, sweetcheeks. Okay, guys, new news,_" he continued as a beep resounded off the speaker, "_The font decoder just got the first line of the Interpol file on Erik Lensherr's almost arrest and you will absolutely not believe what it says._"_  
_

Charles raised an eyebrow. "Go on, Warren."

"_In correlation with the investigation of the previously abandoned Claus Schmidt case, the following agents are to be,_" he read aloud, and they all looked at each other. "_That's all I've gotten so far, it might be another few weeks before I have another line, Times New Roman is a weird font to match up._"

"Thank you, Warren, you're an enormous help," Charles said into the speaker, before the call was ended. He turned to the rest of the group, and Rogue pulled her sweater tighter around her body.

"So Lensherr might be our second unsub?" she asked, and Logan nodded, writing the names _Claus Schmidt_ and _Wanda Romanov_ on the whiteboard. "Then again, it might be the other way around. What if Schmidt managed to convert Romanov to his cause. She could always be his second in command."_  
_

"None of you guys have spoken to Moira recently, have you?" Peter asked suddenly, and the other four agents turned to him. "Just curious."

In turn, after a bit of thinking, each of the agents shook their heads. Charles looked at the younger agent out of the corner of his eye as Rogue began speaking, squinting in suspicion. "What if Lensherr's the unsub and Schmidt is the second in command?" she suggested, and Logan growled in frustration.

"It could be any combination!" he shouted, whirling around, and Rogue put her hands up defensively.

"I was just theorizing," she stated, and Charles clapped a hand to the side of his head.

"Shit! I need to finish up the interview with Mrs. Callahan, I will be right back in," he announced, and they all waved him off, letting him dash out of the room. Charles skidded down the hall and swung into the interview room, letting out a breath as he opened the door. "I am so sorry about that wait, Mrs. Callahan, I-"

Charles' words came to a world shattering halt as his heart seemed to drop into his stomach. He stood stock still in the room, hand still on the doorknob, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging agape. The whole earth seemed to stop turning for a horrifying minute, and Charles felt as if he were going to faint, or scream, or throw up, or perhaps all three. But all he managed to do was let out a high pitched, "_Help._"

In the chair he had left her in, white clothing stained with red, sat Kate Callahan.

Her head severed from her body.


	16. Chapter 16

**Okay, just to clear something up, there aren't any powers in this. I probably should've mentioned that in the beginning of the story, so sorry for any confusion!**

* * *

"_I- oh, I'm sorry_," Charles breathed, shuddering as Rogue pushed a mug of hot tea into his shaking hands, bringing it toward his mouth. "I'm- _I'm sorry_," he muttered, trying to take a drink. Rogue gave him a kiss on the forehead, rubbing his shoulder comfortingly.

"It's okay, sugar, it's okay. Just try to calm down, you're gonna work yourself into a panic attack," she said as gently as she could, and Charles nodded, taking a drink of the tea she had given him. Rogue turned to the other agents who were standing around him, waving them off aggressively. When they had left, she wrapped her arm around Charles and softly pet his hair as he leaned his head on her shoulder. "You don't have to talk yet, don't worry. It's only been two hours since it happened, and you're still in shock, they're not gonna question you for a little while."

Charles choked on his breath, bringing a shaking hand up to try and wipe his eyes of the tears that were threatening to spill over. Rogue made calming shushing noises, patting his hand, and Charles slowly let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "I- I only left her alone for _a minute,_" he cried, and Rogue shook her head, hugging him close to her.

"Sh, don't talk about that, sweetie. You don't need to talk about that. Let's talk about something else, hm? What else do you want to talk about?" she asked, looking down at him with sympathy in her eyes. Charles wiped his eyes again and sat up a bit, allowing Rogue to keep her hand on his shoulder.

"H- how," he started, taking a wobbling breath, "How's Remy doing?" Rogue sighed, looking at her lap, and Charles looked over at her, licking his lips. "Bad topic?"

The woman smiled, pushing the white streaks in her hair out of her eyes, and shook her head. "No, he's doing fine. Blind, but fine. Doctors are still tryin' to figure out what happened. They think it was something he ingested reacting badly with some of the meds he's on, they aren't sure what. But I know it's killin' him being trapped in the hospital all day every day," she said, and Charles nodded in agreement, breathing in deeply and exhaling through his mouth.

"Poor man, it's been w-what? Three weeks?" he asked, and Rogue nodded, shrugging.

"Two and a half, but yeah. He's bored out of his mind. Can't watch TV, can't read, can't play any games, oh he's _devastated_ that he can't play cards anymore!" she laughed, and Charles chuckled weakly, sipping his tea. "You still in a hotel?" she inquired curiously, and the detective pushed his long hair behind his ears, sighing.

"Yes, I am. Warren offered to let me stay with him, but my mother's got plenty of money. I'm sure she won't mind me renting out a hotel room, just until we get this case closed. Then it's back to New York and my awful petty cases I have to work," he grumbled, and Rogue shrugged, shaking her head.

"You never know, Charles. Shaw might reinstate you. You're doing amazing work with this case," she suggested, but he shook his head firmly, sipping his tea again.

"No, no. Shaw would never allow me back with the bureau full time, no matter how good my work is. I ruined my chances long ago," he admitted, looking down into the watery darkness of his tea. He had stayed late the night before, and Shaw had called him into his office, sitting him down for a chat about his work on the case.

_"Sit down, Charles. Please," said Sebastian Shaw as Charles walked into his office. The dark haired detective awkwardly took a seat across the desk from the older man. There was silence for a moment, before Shaw finally spoke once again. "Now listen, Charles. I'm sure you can imagine what extreme hesitations I had bringing you in for this case."_

_Charles gulped nervously, nodding and twiddling his hands in his lap. "Yes, sir, I can imagine," he responded carefully, genuinely frightened of his former boss._

_Shaw folded his hands, pursing his lips. "You're doing an excellent job, agent," he continued, and Charles squirmed slightly. "Chocolate?" he offered, pushing the bowl toward the awkward dark haired man across from him. Charles declined, shaking his head, but Shaw pushed it toward him once again. "Take one, agent, they're quite delicious."_

_"Um, no thank you," he said, looking away from Shaw to try and avoid eye contact. _

_"Agent, take one or you're off the case," the man demanded in a harsh voice. Charles almost squeaked, taking a chocolate out of the bowl and eating it immediately. Shaw watched him as he chewed and swallowed nervously, smiling and pulling the bowl back to himself. "Good. Now then. I was just calling you in to tell you that the progress you're making on the case is exceptional. Tell the other agents the same."_

But... no, that's not right._ That wasn't what Shaw said after he took the chocolate. _Charles' head hurt as he struggled to recall what he seemingly couldn't remember. _"You're doing a bit _too_ excellently is what I was going to say. It's quite... worrisome for me."_

"Are you alright?" Rogue asked in concern, and he looked up at her, seeing that her face was riddled with worry. Charles shrugged, nodding. "Charles, really. Are you alright?"

"Yes," he told her, nodding again, this time slower. "I've got a headache, but other than that I'm perfectly fine. Why would you ask?"

Rogue looked around, her brow furrowed, and she raised a hand to Charles' forehead as though checking for a fever. "You're warm, Charles. Are you sick? You just stopped talking halfway through a sentence and kinda stared off into space for a while, I'm a little worried," she said, her hand resting on his shoulder. Charles shrugged, sipping his tea, which was beginning to get cold.

"I assure you, I'm perfectly fine," he tried to tell her, but Rogue was shaking her head.

"No, you need to go back to your hotel, Charles. I think you're startin' to get a fever, and we can't let you get too sick. We still need you on the case," she insisted, standing up and crossing the room to the door. "Hey, Peter!" she called to the young agent, who was at his desk. "Get up here, I want you to drive Charles back to his hotel!"

She walked back to Charles, who was sitting in confusion, still holding his tea between his hands. "But, no, Rogue, we need to figure out how M- Magneto killed Mrs. Callahan in a bu- building full of detectives," he told her, but Rogue was helping him to his feet already.

"We've already got that covered, Charles. Alright, Peter. Make sure he gets back to his room alright," she commanded, and Peter smiled politely at Charles, who was swaying slightly on his feet, not having realized himself how dizzy he was. "I'll see you tomorrow, Charles. _Please_ get some rest."

"C'mon, old man. You don't look too hot."

* * *

"They're getting close," Shaw told another man over the phone, shaking his head and rubbing the bridge of his nose. "They're getting _far too close._"

"_Shaw, if I may. They aren't going to find you. They won't even almost find you. Even if you hadn't killed Emma's mother they still wouldn't have found you. You have nothing to worry about,_" the man responded with a thick Russian accent. Shaw pushed his hair out of his face and let out a breath, pacing back and forth in his office.

"I know, I know. I know, Azazel. I know. _I know_. I just- I panicked. I shouldn't have killed Kate, that was a huge mistake. But- she just- she knew too much! She _remembered_ too much! I thought the dose I gave her was strong enough but-" he ranted, clenching his fists and looking over his shoulder in paranoia. "Xavier doesn't remember anything, he would've talked by now if he did. I don't even know if he remembers meeting last night. But I'm worried. God, if they find us-"

"_They won't find us, Shaw. Even if they do, we could be in the sub en route to Cuba before they manage to get to us,_" Azazel said, his Russian voice crackling over the phone, the sound of muffled rap music playing in the background. "_If worse comes to worst you dispose of Xavier and whoever else you're worried about. Shaw we are going to be perfectly fine._"

The older man let out a long breath, pinching the bridge of his nose and nodding to himself. "I need to call in all the agents, get an idea of what they know. I hear you took care of Kate Bishop without asking me first," he sighed, and Azazel made a noise of confirmation.

"_I had to. __She was in communication with Wade Wilson and Ororo Munroe, who got your present, by the way,_" he added in an afterthought. Shaw smiled slightly; at least something was going as he wanted it to. "_We've got eyes on them. Munroe and Wilson are both with Barton at his penthouse. I think they're under the impression we won't be able to find them, because they seem quite at ease._"

Chuckling slightly to himself, Shaw glanced out the window of his office, toward the desks. Charles Xavier was being walked across the room by a young silver haired agent, looking as if he were going to faint. "Are the Romanovs with them?" he asked, his brow furrowing.

"_Nein, sir. We still haven't gotten a visual on either Romanov. They disappeared best after the incident, we haven't been able to find them since,_" Azazel told him, and Shaw scratched at his chin, watching as the two crossed the room, and he suddenly stood up straighter, nearly dropping the phone in his hand. "_Sir? Sir, you still there?_" his Russian friend asked curiously, and Shaw brought the cell back up to his mouth, stammering a bit.

"Azazel, I think I have a visual on Romanov. I don't know how the hell I missed him. I don't know how he got past me, but he did," he spoke in a trance, his eyes following the silver haired agent as he walked toward the elevator.

"_Sir?_"

Shaw walked toward the window, peering through and trying to get a closer look at who he was staring at. The young man turned slightly, to speak to someone else, and Shaw felt his eyes go wide. He pulled the blinds down and dashed behind his desk, taking his gun out of the locked drawer and shoving it into his jacket. "_Sir?_" Azazel asked once again.

"Romanov is here in the goddamned building, Azazel!" he hissed, leaning on his desk. "He's one of the agents on the case, he's one of _my damn agents!_ I don't know how I missed him when he joined the bureau, I don't know how he got past me but he did and he's on our case. He won't talk, will he? We can't let him talk, he knows my operation inside out! If he talks I'm dead!"

"_I suppose that's a risk we can't take, Shaw,_" Azazel responded, his voice dropping to a quiet tone. "_I will send a bit of a message. You have nothing to worry about. Get rid of the phone._"

And with that, the line went dead.

* * *

"Whoa, whoa, easy!" Peter exclaimed as Charles nearly fell over on his way up the steps. "Man, you really do look like shit in this lighting. It's like you're melting or something. What happened? Did somebody toss a bucket of water on you?" The silver haired detective laughed at his own joke, almost letting Charles fall backwards, before continuing to help him to his hotel.

"Shut the hell up, Peter, I'm obviously sick," Charles grumbled reaching up with a shaking hand and rubbing his eyes. Stopping outside of one of the doors, Peter snorted and pulled out the hotel room key from Charles' bag, which was slung over his shoulder.

"Yeah, and you'd better not be contagious, bitch. I'm _not_ getting whatever you've got, not today," he chuckled, kicking the door open with his foot once he'd unlocked it. "Alright, in you go. I can help you get settled if you want, because, ya know, you're not exactly a responsible adult."

Charles groaned as he fell into the chair in the corner, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "As if you _are_?" There was a pause where neither of them said anything, before Charles smiled weakly. "I'm perfectly capable, thank you Peter."

"Alright, if you're sure," he said, putting his hands up and turning to walk toward the door. However, he froze half way through stepping forward, inhaling sharply. Charles sat up in confusion and slight concern, his head swimming. Peter unclenched his fists and shook his head. "I'm fine, stay there. I'm fine, I'm fine."

After a tense moment, the silver haired detective let out a long breath, standing up straighter and shaking his hands back and forth. "You sure you don't need any help, Charles?" he asked once again, turning around. The dark haired man in the chair narrowed his eyes; his young partner looked pale, paler than usual, at least. But he shrugged nonetheless, ignoring it.

"Any chance you could grab that book off the night stand?" he requested, and Peter smiled pleasantly, crossing the room and picking up the black hardcover book. He handed it over and Charles nodded, closing his eyes. "Thank you Peter. That... that's really all. I suppose I'd enjoy the company, but you don't have to stay if you don't want."

Peter shrugged and sat down on the neatly made bed, cross legged. "I've got plenty of time. The rest of the team's got it covered for now, I can spare some time," he said, and Charles smiled slightly, kicking of his shoes and pulling his legs up onto the chair, leaning on the armrest. "How'd you get sick so fast?" Peter asked.

Charles blew air out of his mouth and shook his head. "No idea, honestly. I met with Shaw last night, I was feeling fine before that. And after that, come to think of it. Maybe it's his toxic presence," he joked, and Peter laughed, tossing his head back. "No idea, though. It really didn't start until about half way through the interview with Mrs. Callahan."

"That sucks, man. Hang on a minute, my phone is ringing," he stated, standing up and walking across the room, his back turned to Charles. "Hello? Whoa, hey, calm down. No, I haven't. Listen, I..." he glanced over his shoulder at the man in the chair, pursing his lips. "I can't talk right now. Go somewhere public if you're so worried, leave the penthouse. Yeah, I can meet up with you later. Okay, 'Ro. Yeah bye."

Peter hung up the phone and tossed it down on the side table, flopping down on the bed. "It's getting late, man. It's like ten PM. Do you want me to order takeout or something? I wouldn't mind staying the night," he stated, and Charles rubbed his temple, chuckling slightly.

"That'd be nice, Peter, but I don't want to keep you longer than you have to stay. Go back to Quantico, they probably need you," he said, but Peter shook his head firmly, dragging himself across the bed to reach the side table.

"I'm getting Chinese, do you want anything?"

* * *

It was early in the morning when Charles' phone started ringing. He groaned, blinking groggily and rolling over in the hotel bed to try and shut it off, or at least see who it was. Across the room, he heard the loud groaning of Peter, who was complaining about the noise. "Shut it _up_," he yelled, both arms slung over his face.

"_I'm trying,_" Charles responded, his voice thick with sleep. "No, dammit, it's Rogue. Hello? Rogue it's six in the bloody morning, what do you want?"

"_Charles, there's been a triple homicide the police just called about. They weren't sure if it was connected with Magneto, but now that I've taken a look... well,_" she stated, trailing off her sentence, and Charles sat up, rubbing his eyes and holding the phone between his head and his shoulder.

"Alright," he paused to yawn loudly, "We'll be there in a few. Text the address. See you."

"_Wait, Charles! I can just ask Peter, if you're not feeling well-_" Rogue tried to protest, but Charles shook his head to himself, yawning again.

"I'm feeling better, Rogue. Thanks for being concerned. Rest must've helped," he said, smiling, and Rogue made a noise of suspicious confirmation.

"_Alright, sweetie. See you both there._" The call ended, and Charles stretched his arms out, scooting himself to the edge of the bed.

Yawning once again, he pushed his hair out of his eyes, turning slightly to the chair across the room where Peter was half asleep. "Peter," he called, standing up and pulling off his pajama shirt. "Get up. We need to go."

"Why?" he responded, rolling off the chair and landing on the floor with a loud _thud._ "Can't we go-" he yawned loudly, "Later?"

Charles rubbed his eyes tiredly and pulled on a pair of pants and a dress shirt. "C'mon. Get your coat. There's been another killing. Triple homicide." He had begun pulling on his boots, and Peter stood up groggily, his hair in a tangled nest on his head.

"How do they know it was Magneto?" he muttered as Charles threw him the jacket he'd tossed on the ground the night before.

"Rogue sounded certain. C'mon," he said sleepily, and Peter pulled his jacket on, following Charles out the door.

"You sure you're feeling good enough to go? I mean I could go if you want, just tell Rogue to send me the add-" the silver haired man tried to offer, but Charles was having none of it.

"I'm fine, Peter. Really. I'm feeling much better at the moment," he stated, and Peter shrugged, rubbing his eyes and raking a comb through his hair. "Hey, wait. Is that my comb?" Charles demanded, and Peter nodded. The profiler was too tired to argue.

After stopping to pick up cheap coffee in the lobby of the hotel, they took a cab to the crime scene, which was about twenty minutes away. Neither talked the whole ride over; both were still trying to wake up, but they had managed to get themselves into a fairly decent state by the time they arrived.

After paying the cab driver the two walked over to Rogue, who was waiting outside the building for them. "Morning," Charles said with a slight chuckle, and the dark haired woman rolled her eyes. "Alright, what've we got?"

Rogue led them into the building like a tour guide, tossing them both a pair of latex gloves to inspect the crime scene with. "Like I said before, triple homicide. Hank reckons it happened around ten last night, all three of 'em shot through the stomach maybe four times each, bullets removed," she explained as they stepped into the elevator, heading up toward the top floor. "Hank thinks they were just leaving when Magneto showed up, there's no sign of the door being forced open, but it was found open when police got there. The killer left a message this time, too. But we don't know who it's for."

"I feel like I've been here before, anybody else?" Peter asked, chuckling, and Charles laughed.

"I've been in so many lavish places I can't tell them apart anymore," he stated, and Rogue rolled her eyes heavily, sighing.

"Alright, boys, pull yourselves together, we're here," she told them, the elevator doors opening to reveal a hallway with a single door. The three stepped off the elevator and walked toward the crime scene. Charles whistled. "Penthouse, I know." They approached the open door, where the detectives were snapping photos and looking at the bodies, and several police officers stepped aside when the three FBI agents walked up behind them. "There's the bodies, and there's the message. Any idea what it means?" she asked, pointing.

On the wall, written in blood, was the word LIAR, and on the ground were three people, one a blonde man in a purple shirt, one a dark skinned woman with white hair, and the last a bald man covered in scars, bullet wounds through all of their stomachs. Charles furrowed his brow at the bodies, scratching his chin. "Definitely a personal connection to these victims. The brutality and the message is a clear indicator of that. What do you think?" he asked, turning to Peter.

The silver haired detective didn't say anything, he just stood with his mouth agape and his eyes wide. He looked paralyzed, all color drained from his face as he stared at the bodies on the ground in front of him. "Peter? You alright?" Charles asked in concern.

Peter took a shuddering breath and blinked several times. "_I need some air._"


	17. Chapter 17

**Okay so this chapter is actual shit and if it doesn't make any sense could you tell me? Cause I kept trying to work out what would happen, and it just wasn't really processing through my mind. Thanks.**

**Also could anybody help a sister out and tell her what "uwu" means? I'm so lost.**

**Thanks for the reviews!**

* * *

"Peter!" Charles shouted as he ran after the younger man, who was holding onto the black fence and leaning half way over. "Peter, hey, what the hell?!" he asked as he slowed his running to a walk and approached Peter cautiously. The young detective stood up straighter, and Charles noted that he had just thrown up on the ground. "Peter, what was that? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm sorry. I'm- I'm fine," he breathed, not looking at the other man. "Oh God-" Charles turned away as Peter bent over and spilled the remaining content of his stomach on the ground. When he had stopped, Charles turned back to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

"What's wrong? It wasn't the crime scene, was it? You weren't phased by Emma Frost's murder, and this one was far less gruesome," he stated, and Peter shook his head, turning to face Charles as he rubbed the sides of his head. "Are you ill? I didn't give you whatever it was I had, did I?"

"No. I'm- I'm alright. I'm fine, Charles. I just. _God,_ it was just... never mind," he said, putting a hand over his mouth as if he were trying to stop himself from crying. "Hm, yeah. I'm really sorry. I don't know. I- I need to sit down-" he stammered, and Charles caught him as his legs seemed to buckle underneath him.

"Okay, okay, you're alright, sit down, come on," he said as he half-dragged the silver haired detective toward a different spot of the fence, away from the pile of Peter's vomit. "There we are, it's alright. C'mon, put your head between your knees, I'm not having any puke on me today. There you go, that's a good lad."

Charles put his hand on Peter's back as he sat in silence, and checked his phone when it buzzed with a text from Rogue. _Is everything alright?_ it said. _We're fine, I'll be back in a minute,_ he responded, putting the phone back in his pocket. Peter sat up, blinking slowly, and he shook his head. "I'm really sorry, man. That just- I just..." he murmured, and Charles smiled sympathetically at him.

"It's alright, Peter. It happens to all of us. In fact... you should be worried if it _doesn't _happen occasionally, lest you become jaded," he responded, and he earned a small smile from the silver haired detective.

They sat in silence for a minute, staring around at the flashing police lights and confused bystanders who were gathering by the crime scene tape. "I hated you when we met," Peter stated out of the blue, looking over at Charles. "I think it was because of your thing with Lensherr, I expected you to be a real unstable asshole, but I mean... you're actually a really nice guy once you get past the grouchy old man wall you've got going on."

"I'm not sure if that's a compliment, Peter," Charles responded, smiling humorously and staring at the young man out of the corner of his eye. "You're not so bad either, my friend. You're incessantly annoying and you always find a way to get on my nerves, but you're definitely a good person at heart."

Peter looked down, smiling and shaking his head. After another moment of silence, he slumped his shoulders. "You should go back in. I'm gonna head to Quantico," he said as he stood up. Charles stood up with him, clapping a hand on the younger man's shoulder.

"See you, Peter," he said, and the two walked their separate ways, Peter in the direction of the curb and Charles back into the building. He was on his way up to the crime scene in the elevator when something suddenly dawned on him. "Hang on..." he muttered to himself, furrowing his brow as the elevator ticked up, telling him what floor he was passing.

Something Peter had said in his backhanded compliment was now stuck in Charles' brain, leaving him with a very big question.

_How did Peter know about my relationship with Erik Lensherr?_

* * *

"Where've _you_ been, tough guy?" Rogue joked as Logan walked into the room twenty minutes after the others had gotten back from the crime scene.

"Late night," he grinned, winking at Peter, whose eyes were wide. "If you know what I mean."

Warren, along with the others in the room, was quiet for a moment, before he at last made a disgusted face. "Okay... _way_ too much info, Logan. We need to talk about your speaking boundaries. Let's go, come on, case."

He clicked the slideshow to life. "This one was real intense. Ororo Munroe, age thirty four, Clint Barton, age thirty, and Wade Wilson, age forty one were killed in the doorway of Barton's penthouse at around ten last night," he recited, and the screen was lit up with the crime scene photographs of the dead bodies.

Peter looked away, closing his eyes as Warren moved onto the next pictures. "Each took four gunshot wounds to the stomach, and on the wall... oh this is so gross, the killer wrote 'liar' in all capitals in what appears to be the victim's blood, but they haven't identified which victim. Ballistics are working on getting a match for the gun," he explained, and Logan scratched his stubbly chin.

"Another personal connection to these ones. How do we know it's Magneto? Style's pretty different," he said, and Warren nodded in agreement, continuing with the slideshow.

"Okay, so we found _this _written on a sticky note on Barton's body," he said, and there was a photo of a blue post it stuck to the blonde man's blood-splattered neck. Charles scratched his chin as he looked at the note.

"It's me," he read aloud, and Warren nodded, pulling a face. "He _wanted_ us to know it was him!"

Hank sat up straighter in his seat, his mouth hanging open in shock. "That's the same handwriting as the note in my kitchen!" he exclaimed, and Logan sneered.

"He's _taunting_ us," he growled angrily, slamming his fist on the table. Rogue rolled her eyes and looked over the tablet in her hand.

"Calm down, you two. Don't make me smack you again," she threatened, licking her lips and raising her eyebrow. "Do these victims have any connection with Erik Lensherr or Emma Frost?"

"I'm working on that now. In fact, by suggestion of Hank, I'm running all the names from the victim list against the blacked out Interpol names, so far zip but we haven't gotten too far up the list," he stated, and Peter scratched his chin, standing up abruptly. "Going somewhere, sparky?" Warren inquired, and the silver haired man shook his head.

"I just remembered I have to call somebody back. I know this isn't the time, but it's sort of important. Charles can fill me in on what I missed," he smiled in a forced manner, walking backwards toward the door. Charles gave him an indignant look.

"Can I?" he asked sarcastically, but Peter was already out the door. "Asshole..." Charles proceeded to mutter under his breath.

* * *

Wendy Quill was in the middle of eating a very delicious sandwich off the table at one of her photo shoots when she realized someone was calling her phone. Stuffing the rest of the food in her mouth, she checked to make sure no one was following her before stepping out into the dank stairwell, clicking on the green 'answer' button.

"Hello?" she answered, her voice muffled by the sandwich she was still chewing.

"_Wendy they're dead,_" stated a voice from the speaker. Wendy felt her heart drop into her stomach, an icy dread spreading over her to replace the joy she had been feeling previously. "_Wendy this is my fault. I wish it wasn't, but it is._"

Wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, Wendy sat down on the cement stairs, putting a hand to her head. "Oh Peter..." she breathed, and she could hear her brother trying to keep his composure on the other line. "How did it ha- happen?" she managed to ask after a long pause.

"_It was A- Azazel,_" Peter stated, his voice cracking only slightly, though he sounded as horrified as his sister. Wendy's hand flew to her mouth in shock.

"H- How do you know?" she squeaked, her chin quivering. She had thought Azazel was dead, Peter had _told her_ he was dead! "How do you know it was him? It couldn't be him, Peter, it couldn't! You told me he was _gone!_" her voice had raised, forgetting about not drawing attention to the stairwell.

"_I lied, Wendy. I'm so sorry, but I lied. It was only to protect you, I swear. If you knew he was still alive you'd have gone after him, you would've tried to kill him-_" her brother tried to explain, but Wendy could hear nothing but excuses.

"Damn _right_ I would've killed him!" she shouted, and she could tell Peter had flinched away from the phone, though she couldn't see him. "That doesn't matter right now. What are you planning on doing? You're next if the others are gone. Unless they haven't gotten to Kate yet."

"_No, Kate's dead. She was the second to go, after Kayla._"

Wendy gasped, her hand clenching over her knee. "K- Kayla's gone? How is Kayla gone? You didn't tell me they got to her!" she hissed, rage bubbling in her stomach.

"_I didn't want to freak you out, Wendy! You tried to go straight! You aren't involved any more! I thought the less I told you the safer you'd be!_" he defended, "_It wasn't easy, Wendy! I had to look into Maria's eyes like I didn't know her or her mother and tell her I was 'sorry for her loss',_" he spat the last words as if it physically pained him to say it.

"I'm sorry, Peter. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get mad, I really didn't. I just- what are you going to do?" she asked, rubbing her temples. Her brother sighed on the other end.

"_I'm not going to do anything. It was just a threat. It was just him telling me not to tell my team what I know and it wasn't anything else. I'm safe for now,_" he told her calmly, and Wendy rolled her eyes, laughing humorlessly.

"Azazel doesn't just send threats and you know that. It _never_ stops at a threat. If you stay in the city you'll be dead in a week. Tell your team what you know so they can catch Schmidt but get out of there the second that information hits their ears," she ordered harshly, her teeth gritted together. Her brother said something in response, but Wendy didn't hear it. A small noise behind her alerted the presence of another person in the stairwell.

Hiding the phone behind her back, Wendy spun around, ready to fight if the need presented itself. However, she was met with the pale, freckled face of Jean Grey, her modeling partner. Chuckling darkly and putting a hand on her heart, Wendy took a step toward the red haired woman. "Jean, you scared me," she said, but received no response. "Jean? You alright?"

"Your brother should've kept his mouth shut," Jean stated with a cold, blank expression on her face. "I'm so sorry, _Wanda._"

Wendy never got a chance to feel the harsh sting of her friend's betrayal, because what she felt next was ten thousand volts of electricity slamming into her body, and then the crack of her body hitting the cement. Her phone... _it was_ laying _on the ground_ in front of her... but _she couldn't c_all for help... _the_re wa_s a voice _it was... coming from _the phone..._

_"Wendy are you alright?"_

Then it was all dark.

* * *

**Yeah that didn't make any sense, but reviews would still be appreciated :)**


	18. Chapter 18

**Okay hopefully this chapter makes more sense, sorry for the long update wait from last time**

* * *

Warren slurped the Icee he had bought from Get Go and set it back down on his desk. His fingers clicked on the keys of his computer at lightning speed, his eyes scanning over the information that was popping up on the screen. He heard the door to his office open, and Warren glanced over his shoulder, seeing the silver haired Peter Maximoff walking into the room. "Hey hon," he greeted, going back to his work. "How was whoever you were calling?"

Peter flopped down in the other office chair, sliding across the room and running into Warren's desk. "It was my dentist, and he was fine."

"Okay... I take it you're not interested in talking about it," he observed, spinning his chair and grinning at the silver haired detective beside him. "Tell me, my second prize medal, what brings you to this humble abode?"

"Second prize medal, I've never heard that one before," Peter chuckled to himself, shrugging.

"Just here to socialize, then?" Warren responded, but the usually perky man shook his head, leaning on the blonde's desk. "Not here to socialize, got it. What do you need, because the world is at my fingertips and I am _itching_ to type."

"I need you to look somebody up for me," he started, and Warren tapped his fingers excitedly on the keyboard.

"That _is_ my specialty! Tell me the name, darling, and this guy is all yours!" he exclaimed, slightly shocked when he didn't even earn a small smile from Peter.

"Makarov, Azazel," the man requested, and Warren typed the name into his system. A ding sounded from the speaker and he clicked his tongue. "More than one?"

"There are _twelve_ Azazel Makarov's in our database, sweetie. Any way you could narrow that down for me?" Warren asked, and Peter scratched his chin, sitting halfway on the desk. "Anything would be helpful."

"Russian immigration services 2003," he finally asked, and Warren typed the key words into the database. A blank black box came up. "Nothing? Um... try residential purchases of large land in Germany in 2003?" Another blank box.

"Sorry, honey, nothing here," Warren sighed, and Peter shook his head, his brow furrowing deeply. "Is there _anything_ else I could try?"

After a moment, Peter snapped his fingers, pointing at Warren. "Try recent purchases of a building in the nearby area, possibly a bar or a restaurant," he stated, and the blonde man gave him a funny look before he began typing it into the system. A photograph of a sunburnt man with black hair appeared next to a white document on the screen, and he grinned up at Peter, slightly suspicious, who moved to be able to read.

"There we go, we've got a bar owned by Azazel Makarov up the street, purchased four months ago," he informed the man standing next to him, flashing a bright smile. "Any chance you'll tell me why you wanted to know about this strange man?"

Peter stood up and pushed the chair back to where he had found it. "Nope. Thanks for the help, Warren, you're an angel in disguise," he said, walking swiftly out of the room and closing the door on his way out.

Turning back to his computer, Warren huffed slightly, putting his fingers on the keyboard. "Won't tell me? Fine, whatever. I'll figure it out myself," he muttered to himself, beginning to look into the Azazel Makarov they had found.

He sipped his Icee aggressively as he typed, squinting at the screen curiously. "Azazel Makarov..." he muttered to himself, leaning on his hand. "Who are you?"

A noise sounded in his earpiece and he tapped the device with his finger. "_Warren, hey,_" said a voice from the other end. It was familiar, but Warren couldn't put a name to who it was. "_This is Warren Worthington, right?_"

"Yeah, this is Warren Worthington. How can I help you, mysterious caller?" he asked, a suspicious edge to his voice. The person chuckled. It was a woman, Warren could tell that much, with an aggressive tone in her words that she seemed to be holding back. He knew who it was, but he was struggling to retrieve their name from his memories. Her face was _right there_ in his mind... "And um... could you tell me who you are please?"

"_Warren, it's Raven_," the woman stated, and the slurp of Icee that had been in his mouth dripped off his tongue and back into the cup. He sat frozen in shock for a long moment, before letting out a long, high pitched squeak and jumping into action, shutting off the security cameras in his office.

"Raven you can't call me here what the hell are you thinking you could get arrested _I _could get arrested where have you been you disappeared why are you calling me now what-" he shouted into his speaker, typing to try and track the call. _Just for security measures..._ he tried to reassure himself.

"_Calm down, Warren. I just need you to do a quick security cam sweep to find somebody. Erik Lensherr, you remember him?_" she asked, and Warren bit his lip.

"How could I forget him, Raven?" he responded, his voice cracking a bit. "Listen, I haven't heard from Erik in years, not since Logan hooked me up in the FBI. I'm out, Raven. I'm out, I'm done, I'm gone, if you want somebody to help you talk to Angel."

"_You are Angel_," she shot back, and Warren growled in frustration.

"No, I mean- ugh, you know who I mean. Angel-Angel, the one whose name is _really_ Angel. Angel _Salvadore_," he grumbled.

Raven, from the other line, sighed, and Warren looked over his shoulder in paranoia. "Please, Raven, I'll meet up with you somewhere, but you can't be calling me at work. How did you even _get_ this number?" he demanded, his voice lowered to a harsh whisper now.

"_Angel-Angel __gave it to me._" At Warren's exclamation of shock, Raven scoffed. "_Oh please. Don't act like you wouldn't do the same. I can't find Erik and this is sort of important. Did you hear about the triple homicide?_"

The blonde's face darkened and he nodded to himself. "Yeah. I'm on that case. Don't tell me they were yours. And good lord please tell me that wasn't _him_," he groaned, and Raven chuckled under her breath.

"_No, not mine. And no, it wasn't him. Thankfully. Remember when we worked the original Magneto case together?_" she asked, and Warren's brow furrowed, his face growing concerned.

"Yeah, I remember. We're working the new one at the FBI. I didn't think you'd get involved after what happened last time," he stated, and Raven snorted.

"_As if I wouldn't get involved. If you can't do a cam sweep now that's fine, but, meet me at the Morrell Café as soon as possible,_" the woman commanded, and Warren scrambled to write it down. "_Bring your computer and a disposable cell. We might need to patch Angel-Angel through._"

"Morrell Café, disposable cell, asap, got it," he repeated, and the call was ended from Raven's line, just as Warren heard the door of his office opening.

He screamed loudly, spinning his chair around and nearly falling over, only to see Moira MacTaggert standing in his doorway. Once he'd regained his bearings, Warren laughed awkwardly at the surprised woman, putting a hand over his heart. "Sorry, Moira, I don't know why I'm so jumpy!" he exclaimed, his voice raised three octaves.

Moira gave him a humorously suspicious glance, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah, alright. You aren't watching porn in here, are you?" she asked, and Warren blanched.

"P- porn? Why would- ahem," he cleared his throat, deepening the tone of his voice. "Why would you ask that?"

"Well it looks like the security feed was turned off in here," she began, and the blonde visibly paled. "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone. I was just making sure you weren't being murdered or something, especially after what happened with Mrs. Callahan."

"You caught me," he stated, putting his hands up. "It was detective themed, I thought maybe that was okay for work." Moira rolled her eyes.

"Okay, whatever. Just... _don't_ at work. I don't want to barge in and... yeah, never mind," she shuddered to herself, making a face. "Work, go. Do your work, work the case, go. C'mon, chop chop. See you later."

"Alright, Moira, my bad!" he called, before remembering what he had to do. "Hang on, Moira!" The woman leaned back through his doorway, eyebrow raised, and Warren smiled at her. "I really need to get some substantial food, I've been here for like two days straight. You mind if I head out for just a little bit?"

Moira laughed softly, tucking her hair behind her ears. "No problem, Warren, just keep your phone on. One of your team might need to call you," she told him, swinging out of the doorway once again. Warren watched down the hall until she had disappeared, before throwing his laptop and several other electronic devices into his bag.

* * *

Wendy woke up with a start, feeling the ground underneath her trembling.

She snapped upright, immediately noticing the aching pain in her head, and she looked around. Her vision was blurry, but she could distinctly make out the fact that she was laying sideways on a couch. As the image began to clear up, Wendy realized that she was on a plane.

Sitting across from her, reading a magazine, was Jean Grey, her red hair flowing loose around her shoulders. Wendy, for a moment, wondered what she was doing on a fancy private jet with her modeling partner, when she suddenly remembered what had happened in the stairwell.

She tried to sit up, but she was assaulted with a hot pain in her abdomen where Jean had hit her with the taser. Wendy hissed, and Jean looked up from her magazine. A small smile spread on her face, and the woman closed the magazine, placing it to the side of her. "So glad you're awake, Wendy. I was worried about you," she said, and Wendy tried to crawl backwards. "Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you."

"Really?" she asked, her voice unreasonably dry sounding. "What was that back in the stairwell then? Fun?"

Jean laughed, tossing her head back. "No, no. That was just for show. I'm sorry I had to taser you I really am, but with all the eyes on me I couldn't say anything," she stated, and Wendy glared at her. "Listen, I can explain what's going on."

"What if I don't _want_ your explanation!?" she snapped, and Jean looked at her blankly, one eyebrow raised.

"Trust me, Wendy, you do. We have about an hour before we get there-" she tried to begin, but Wendy had raised herself to a sitting position, face contorted angrily.

"Alright, Jean, listen up. Don't tell me what I want and don't want, I get to decide that for myself. Now, tell me where we're going and _why_ we're going there, and then tell me why the _hell_ you tasered me, who you're working for, and once you've done that I want a scotch on the rocks out of that cute little fridge of yours," Wendy spit, scowling at Jean, who appeared taken aback.

When she had regained her bearings, the red haired woman nodded slowly. "Of... of course. I- Well... we're going to Virginia. The woods in Virginia. We're going because you were in danger," she stated. Upon seeing Wendy was going to further question that, she put a finger up. "I'll elaborate later. I tasered you because it was the easiest way to knock you out without hurting you too bad. I would've hit you but you'd probably be mad. Not that it helped much."

"Yeah, I'm still pretty pissed," she grumbled, and Jean pursed her lips.

"I know. Now, I work for a someone who has connections within the CIA and FBI," Jean began, and Wendy laughed humorlessly, scowling.

"Great. Why am I not even surprised? Governments getting involved in my life _once again!_" she shouted, throwing her hands in the air. "Who's the bitch you're working for, hm? Anybody _I_ would know? It's my brother, isn't it? _God_ I am _so sick_ of him treating me like I'm still a little kid!"

"It's not your brother, Wendy. Peter doesn't know I've gotten you. He doesn't know about me at all, actually," she told the angered woman across from her, inspecting her nails. "It's a woman called Raven Darkholme. Name ring a bell?"

Wendy had a response prepared, but the name caught her off guard. Her mouth fell open, no words coming out, until she shook her head in confusion. "Raven? I know her. Yeah. She... well, she almost got me killed. Twice, actually. Mad prison break from Schmidt's facility. What business does she have protecting me?" she demanded, and Jean pursed her lips.

"It's not just you she's protecting, Wendy. In fact, she _wanted_ to leave you be. That's why she hired me to watch you, make sure you didn't get in too much trouble. If Peter hadn't told you about the recent and _unfortunate_ demises of Wilson, Barton, and Munroe, I would've continued watching quietly," she said, and Wendy scowled. "But that was the last straw, I had to get you to safety."

"Thanks... I guess," the dark haired woman said, rubbing her neck awkwardly. "What about Peter? Is he... he's gonna be safe, right? You have surveillance on him too?"

Jean stood up to her full height, closing her eyes and lacing her fingers behind her back. "You want that drink?"

"What? No! I want to know if my brother's safe!" she snapped, jumping to her feet. "He's not, is he? He's gonna get killed and you're not gonna do anything to stop it!"

"Don't do this, Wendy, you don't understand the severity of the situation-" Jean tried to defend, but Wendy wasn't listening.

"_Severity _of the _situation!?_" the woman hissed, taking a step toward the taller woman with her fists raised. Jean's eye was twitching menacingly, her teeth clenched. "I don't _care_ what the severity of the situation is! If you're putting my brother in danger-"

"_You_ put your brother in danger!" Jean shrieked, exploding angrily and towering over Wendy with her fists clenched. "I'm trying to stay calm, Wendy, I really am, but when the bitch you're trying to protect won't shut her trap for twelve seconds to let me explain what's going on it's a little bit hard! I didn't want to be the one strapped to you for six months making sure your big mouth wouldn't get you killed, but guess what, I _apparently_ have the coolest _temper_ of my partners, so I've been forced to play _babysitter_ this whole time while the rest of our organization actually does something about the _homicidal maniac_ that _you_ let go in the _first place! _So sit down and _shut up, Wanda Romanov, before I take your head off and burn it on a pike!_"

Wendy had been backed into the couch now, Jean's ominous form casting a horrifying shadow over her. She braced herself to be punched, or kicked, or murdered in a violent and bloody fashion... but the red haired woman shrank back. "I- I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean- I'm sorry," Jean breathed as she collapsed on the opposite couch.

Eyes wide, Wendy said nothing. She was too terrified. She watched with wary eyes as Jean dialled a number on her phone and lifted the device to her ear, hands shaking. "Hello?" she squeaked. "I'm compromised. I'm dropping her with you guys and I'm leaving. What?"

There was a lengthy pause where Jean looked confused, and then she spoke. "What do you mean 'he's gone'? You _lost Lensherr_\- Raven!" she shouted, pulling the phone away from her ear to gawk at it. "You can't hang up a call like that- you can't- _ugh!_"

"Wh- what's going on? We're not talking about _Erik _Lensherr, are we?" Wendy asked cautiously, and Jean shook her head, redialling the number angrily.

"Raven I swear to God- _hey!_" Jean's mouth fell open and she sneered at the phone, calling Raven's number once again. "If you hang up on me- _you bitch!_"

"What's going on, Jean?" Wendy inquired, this time louder and more direct. Jean shook her head, her teeth clenched, before she threw her phone against the side of the couch, screaming in frustration. "Okay, tell me what's going on, don't freak out."

"We're landing in five minutes and we're taking a cab to the Morell Café immediately. Somehow Raven 'lost track' of a man who was locked in a storage container with her. I hope you don't mind search and rescues, sugar, cause this is gonna be a crazy one."


End file.
